


Genesis

by AnnaofAza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Brainwashing, Castiel as God, Denial of Feelings, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreams vs. Reality, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Love and Conflict, M/M, POV Multiple, Season/Series 06, Waxing Philosophically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 16:18:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2779649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But why? Why would God wipe out entire towns in fire and brimstone, murder a country of innocent babies, and forsake his only begotten son? How could He do such terrible things? How could He justify them? </p><p>Because it was righteous. Because it was for the greater good. Because it was done in the name of love for humanity. </p><p>'This isn’t Cas,' Dean has to remind himself. 'This isn’t Cas.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My knowledge of the Bible/Christian theology comes from attending three years of Catholic school, leafing through my abused Bible, and watching Supernatural. If anyone more knowledgeable than my humble self sees any glaring errors/offensive material, feel free to comment. 
> 
> This is based off my constant grumbles about the lack of a unique opportunity to use Castiel as a villain in Season 6, someone with a true connection as a friend and comrade to the Winchesters who goes bat-shit crazy. 
> 
> I eternally thank my friend and editor, Iyana, for her patience, guidance, humor, and long, philosophical and plot/character-based chats. Without her, this never would have been completed. So here's to you.

He stands before them all in triumph and glory, but all he sees is fear.

Before, he would had beseeched for understanding and had explained why circumstances were as they were. But this has not worked. Time and time again, his warnings and apologies were repaid with nothing but doubt and disdain. He was what he Fell to not become: a tool. He has tried his best to find the right path, but all he felt with certainty was the rope tightening around his neck.

Such a double-edged sword, free will. When Adam and Eve disobeyed, they were banished with this gift. This was a question of much confusion and contemplation–hadn’t freedom of choice been the reason behind the Fall? Why would the Father give them more chances to make so many more mistakes?

But He is better. He stopped another Apocalypse. He made the right choices, and He will continue to do so. His flock will be guided with a steady hand, no longer lost and wavering. They have nothing to fear if they obey. For isn’t that His place, now, to eliminate wrongdoings and discourage such? He will be a better god than the old, with no more helpless sheep at the mercy of wolves.

“You will bow down and profess your love unto me, your Lord. Or I shall destroy you.”

The Elder kneels first. He admires this cool presence, fighting against the initial shock and horror. This will be useful, no doubt, in the future. He can utilize this trove of knowledge and experience, hone it into a powerful force that will help build His new world.

The Boy King is the next to kneel. It is more collapsing than kneeling, but it is no matter. Hell reigns and roars in his head, the Wall torn down. He has punished this lost lamb and forgives him. The Boy King is strong, and suffering will forge him into something new and valuable. He regrets making him into this, and He grieves for it, but His Father had remade new and whole time and time again. He shall do the same.

The Righteous Man is still standing, bent at the waist as he clutches his arm in pain. The bone is not broken–he is strong, but He won’t entertain illusions of strength. His soul is bright, so much so that it was a beacon in the darkest pits of Perdition, but it is strong in a way feet grow tougher from walking great distances, or how the body knits itself into greater resilience with webs of scars and waves of illnesses. He found the Righteous Man and raised him from the endless cycle of suffering and rebuilt him, remade him, with His own Grace. There will be no suffering for this man, this man who taught Him freedom and choice and so much more, something that He’s known for longer than He realizes.

All the Righteous Man needs to do is kneel, submit to this, and be cleansed for a new and better world, a world He will rebuild from the ashes of the old. He feels something swell in him, pity a small spark in the mass of writhing, violent souls inside of him, but it’s extinguished with a single word, a word that defies his gift.

* * *

“No.”

Dean is afraid when Cas–Castiel– _God_ meets his eyes. Those eyes are empty and arrogant and fierce, no longer of…of…a _human._ He and Cas have had wordless conversations this way, but this is no longer Cas. This is no longer the Cas, eyes weary in the long shadows of Bobby’s front room–why couldn’t Dean have seen it before?–that reflected so much of the raw desperation in his voice. No, this is Castiel, stalwart soldier and Angel of the Lord, pinning him down with ice-cold eyes alone, steel in his tone: _I pulled you out of Hell. And I can throw you back in._

His voice is like this now, as rigid and unmovable as the mountains.

“Are you refusing my mercy?” Castiel demands coolly. It reminds Dean of John’s voice, a careful but clear warning, a line that’s been drawn out for him, a line that he should never even think about crossing.

Several answers pop into his head: _yes_ and _mercy?_ and _what the hell is this?_ and _who are you?_ By the steady but lethal gaze this… this _stranger_ is giving him right now, Cas can hear every thought running through his mind. Back then, before, Dean had made Cas promise not to poke around in his head– _there’s a reason why humans aren’t created with mind readin’, Cas–_ and the angel had upheld that, save for a few nice dreams to balance out the frequent nightmares of screaming and red and pain. This Cas, Dean thinks, has no such conniptions. He thinks he’s _God,_ for fuck’s sake.

Cas narrows his eyes, and Dean forces himself to not step backwards. He tries to not continue down his current train of thought, but if the thought is Cas is now God, and the guy _is_ standing right there… what’s he supposed to be thinking about? England?

It’s Bobby who reels him in before Cas can snap his fingers and obliterate him into chunky soup. He shoots Dean a look, and Dean frowns back, because why isn’t Bobby saying anything? Why does Bobby think it’s a good idea for him to do the negotiations? Dean doesn’t consider himself a delicate diplomat, especially not now. There’s too much betrayal and surprise and anger spinning around the axis of his mind to think of some grand, persuasive speech. Not like it had done any good before, Dean silently grumbles.

He tries, though: “No.” Dean has to force his voice steady to speak again: “Cas, this isn’t you. Come on, why don’t we try to fix this, put the souls back–“

“Dean,” Cas interrupts him sternly. “It is not broken.”

Dean flinches, as if Cas had struck him with a physical blow, but the angel– _God_ , he has to remind himself—simply continues. “I am not your Cas. The _Cas_ you knew is gone.” He now sounds resentful. “I am not at your beck and call. I am better. I know my place. And if you know yours, you will prosper in my new kingdom.”

 _This is insane_ , Dean thinks. Sam groans from his place on the floor, and Dean’s wild thoughts turn to his brother. Sammy, who brought home straight A’s since first grade and baked chocolate chip cookies for a girl he liked and sat with him in the shifty motel rooms during Dad’s long hunts and fell from a tree while pretending he was Superman.

“Sam,” he says, courage born from protectiveness coating his words with anger. “ _Fix him_. Isn’t God supposed to be forgiving and all that crap?”

Dean would call it a sneer, if it weren’t so calculated. Is Sam in some other grand scheme for the greater good? Is this another _say yes_ game? “I will not,” Cas says.

“You _promised_.” He sounds pathetic, like a whiny child told that he couldn’t attend a party because he’s grounded, but this is Sam. “You promised you’d save Sam! You break it, you buy it!”

His fury means nothing to Cas. “I remember that the deal only worked if you upheld your end. But you didn’t. You betrayed me, as did your brother.” He shakes his head sympathetically. “That distressed me deeply, Dean, and this was a lesson for the both of us.”

 _What? “_ Sam is innocent,” Dean snaps. “He can’t be some… some tool for you to lose. He’s a friend. _Family_. Family doesn’t do this.”

Cas only shakes his head again, stepping forward, towards him, and Dean’s back hits the wall before he’s realized he’s moved. “Family helps each other, Dean. You taught me that, even though you didn’t practice it. But I won’t betray you, as you betrayed me.” Dean flinches when a hand, strangely warm when he expected it to be as cold as the chilled eyes, reaches out and grabs his shoulder, his left one. The pain in his arm vanishes with a quick but brutal strike at the ache. “I pulled you out of Hell,” Cas tells him, squeezing with a distinct reminder that he could snap Dean’s bones as easily as blinking. “I followed you; I did as you demanded; I stopped Raphael and the Apocalypse; I saved the world to make a paradise, a better world for you.”

 _I’m doing this for you, Dean. I’m doing this because of you._ The words echo, a blaming game, and Dean wants to throw back his head and laugh. “Don’t you remember Paradise was a bunch of bullshit?” He ends up saying instead. “If you want to remember the past, remember that. Paradise is wiping out everything bad and putting in good, but that’s not right. You accept the crap you did, the pain and the guilt, and you deal with it.”

Dean isn’t sure if he is either relieved or disappointed when Cas drops his grip on his arm and steps back into the center of the room. “What good did that do you?” He now laughs, high and cold and cruel. “Hypocrite you are that you don’t follow your own words. Lisa and Ben. You remember what you did to them. Is that the free will you keep talking about, Dean? You erased their pain, and yet you say that the principle is wrong?”

“Shut up about them.” He doesn’t care if his words have consequences, because this is low, this is something Cas can never and could never understand. He perhaps had known, deep down, that a family to play house with was a distraction–albeit a good one–but he cared for them. Lisa may have not been his wife and Ben not his blood, but it didn’t mean anything less. Lisa and Ben knew who he was, what he had done, and had taken him in anyways, helped rebuild the scraps of himself into something resembling wholeness, and that was something Dean could never repay and now had lost hope of doing.

“They can’t remember me.” He’s not sure if he’s addressing Cas now. “It’s my fault, everything.”

Cas seems gentler as he says, “You were happy with them. It didn’t work out, but I can give you that again, or more. I can make it better.”

Dean wants to scoff. He doesn’t get it. For all the talk of free will, Cas doesn’t want that. He’s a dictator. He wants control. Cas wants him to say _yes._

Bobby must see something in his face, because he’s now placing both palms on the ground and kowtowing like a servant or butler boy. It gets Cas’ attention, though, and Dean mentally breathes a sigh of relief.

“I ask for forgiveness on behalf of Dean…God.” Bobby says, words careful on his tongue. “Dean is rash in his actions and words, but this situation is new. To all of us,” he amends quickly. “We need time to process this…big change.”

“I’ll heal Sam. If…” Dean knows the ultimatum: “you bow, Dean Winchester, and swear fealty unto me.”

For a long moment, no one says anything. Dean finds himself bending, ever so slightly at the waist, because he thinks _why not?_ This isn’t going to be Michael, claiming his body and soul for himself—this is still some sliver of wiggle room. He still has his free will. Who says he can’t rebel, as Cas once did? And deep down, Dean doesn’t believe Cas’ threat to strike him down.

Before Dean can speak, Sam firmly says, “No.”

Cas is dangerous again. “You reject my gift?”

Dean stands in front of Sam, feet spread in a steady stance, fists up, as if he could somehow punch the new god in the face. He feels that Cas won’t just break his hand this time around.

“This isn’t you,” he repeats.

The new god only smiles, the same a teacher would give a usually bright student who couldn’t answer an easy question correctly. “You’re right,” he replies. “I’m better. I’m neither weak nor helpless. I can be the perfect god and remake this corrupted world.”

Dean flinches when Cas comes forward again, fingers at his throat. At first, he panics, thinking Cas’ll crush his windpipe or slowly strangle him to death, but Cas only raises his chin, to make him look directly into his eyes.

“But I am also generous.” He says. “I will give you seven days to reconsider your decisions, seven days as I create a new world, seven days—this gift I give to you.”

And before anyone can say anything else, Cas vanishes, but Dean still feels the phantom grip lingering on his face, a silent warning.


	2. Chapter 2

There are no fish in the lake.

And because of that, Dean is suitably paranoid.

He knows every detail of this place. There are the autumn-orange trees across the lake, with golden ripples across the water from the horizon. The waves gently sway from side to side, as if there’s a steady breeze. The dock is well-worn but sturdy, and there’s always a comfortable collapsible chair with a tackle box on one side and a fishing pole on the other. This place had been designed to be peaceful, a reprieve from the hooks and blood and screaming.

Dean had tried to explain the concept of fishing to Castiel, who at first put so many fish in the lake that his line tugged almost every five seconds. “It’s not really about getting them,” he had said, somewhat awkwardly. “It’s about waiting. Being patient. That way, the catch is a reward, for waiting so long. And it’s also relaxing,” he added when Castiel looked as if he didn’t quite believe him. “I like, sometimes, just being able to…I don’t know, relax. Like if there are no hunts, Sammy and I would just drive take the car and just drive around. It doesn’t matter sometimes about the destination. It matters more about the journey.”

Castiel had nodded, expression still taking in Dean’s words, and with a blink, Dean could properly fish.

He really didn’t have to do that. Even back then, it had felt like something extra. From what Dean had understood, Castiel’s job was to just watch his ass, give him information about the next seal to be broken, and remind him consistently about his destiny.

The angels used Hell as a weapon. If he didn’t cooperate, if he wasn’t clicking his heels with a strained smile, if he didn’t go along with their plans, there was the option of Hell. Even Castiel in the beginning had threatened him with that. Everyone up in Heaven seemed to know that Hell was a place of fear for Dean—being tortured—but Cas--when had that name changed?—was the only one who seemed to get the other side of the fear—being the torturer. Cas had been the one to _see_ him, as both the monster he was and something else, something he could be, someone who was iron-strong and good-hearted, some frickin’ hero that was stalwart and true and gallant. But he also saw him as who he was now— _just Dean—_ who loved pie and his baby and jaunts to late-night bars and beer and Sammy and ganking the bad sons of bitches.

Jimmy Novak had rolled his eyes when Dean had snapped at him, long ago before any of this god thing went down, that _Cas isn’t so bad for a dick with wings._

 _He gives you everything, and me nothing,_ Jimmy had sneered bitterly. _I’m not a selfish guy, but come on. I get shot and stabbed and never get to see my family, not even in dreams—I know he can spare the effort—but you, you get breathing space. You get my memories. That dock and that lake? You really think a drone like him could have come up with that?_

“We’ve come so far since then, haven’t we?”

Dean nearly drops the fishing pole, then scolds himself for being so careless. This obviously was no sanctuary. And this was no longer Cas. This time was not a luxury. Dean wasn’t going to get to fish because this was going to be a serious conversation—no, confrontation.

He looks up.

“I thought you were giving me seven days.”

Cas smiles indulgently. “I can’t drop in and visit a friend?”

“You’ve done enough of that, haven’t you?” Dean snaps. _Friend._ Was this Cas really going to move for emotional appeal? If they had been friends, the time had certainly passed. Friends did not betray friends—friends _trusted_ friends to just come to them and help fix whatever sorry situation they had gotten their idiotic self into. _He’s not my friend. He’s not; he’s not._ “How many times were you lurking there, invisible, watching me and Sam and Bobby scrambling to save everyone’s asses?”

“More than I would have liked.” Cas actually sounds genuinely hurt, and Dean has to keep telling himself not to fall for this. But what if—what if this is real? What Cas, somewhere in there, was fighting the souls inside him? Cas had picked the meeting place, a place of peace for both of them. Was this common ground? Did this count as Switzerland or something?

“You didn’t have to do that.” Dean says, at first choosing his words with utmost care and beginning to ramble when Cas showed no change of expression. “I could have helped. Me and Sammy and Bobby, we could have researched and done better. Well,” he interrupted himself. “maybe not Sam at the time, but you could have—“

“But I didn’t.” Cas’ tone is now cold and hard, devoid of the briefest crumb of emotion. “I did it without you, Dean.”

“Maybe.” Dean replies. The fishing pole clenched in his fist is shivering ever so slightly. “But how did you know it was the right choice?”

Cas now is _furious_. He’s not full-on glaring at Dean, but something in the air has changed, like a ripple of static before the first lightning strike. His eyes are growing storm clouds, and Dean’s waiting for the rain. “Do you question my decisions?”

Dean looks at him. He still can see Cas, wild-eyed and desperate through tongues of holy fire, and Dean’s looked back, even when they were supposed to be hauling their asses out there from Crowley’s two-bit minions. He’s looked back, as if waiting for a response, and yet, he had known there wouldn’t be one. It was final, the point of no return, so broken that there hadn’t been a chance of fixing it.

So why look back?

“I don’t have to. You already do.”

The gaze the new god shoots him is withering. “I still expect your answer in seven days’ time,” he practically snarls, and vanishes.

* * *

“Dean! Come on, Dean, wake up! Are you all right?”

Dean can sleep through an earthquake. Hell, even though he and Dean both have hunter’s instinct—the moment sulfur hits their noses or a twig snaps outside the window, they’re up with guns loaded and pointed—they’re both fully capable of snoozing through an alarm. Sam, after all, went to Stanford, and Dean—Dean likes relaxing.

But this was beyond relaxing. This was getting downright worrying, and Lucifer laughing inside his head wasn’t helping matters.

“My brother has your brother,” the devil sings, and Sam tries to ignore him and concentrate on shaking Dean, yelling in his ear, and shouting for Bobby. Should he move Dean to the panic room? Throw a bucket of water on him? Dig up a spell from one of Bobby’s books?

Before Sam can do anything, Dean wakes up.

* * *

 

 “All right. Solution chat.” Bobby points to the laptop screen, playing a clip from the day’s morning news. The banner runs below the reporter’s face, struggling to keep a calm expression in the midst of the massive wave of people wailing in the background. “Our friend and new god Cas just smited the holy hell out of some KKK rally.”

“So that’s good.” Dean says, and Sam gives him a look, even though he’s not exactly weeping about one of the oldest and deepest racist groups getting the ax. His older brother looks offended. “What? I’m just saying, maybe the world’s better off without them.”

“That may be.” Bobby says. “They’re disbanding for now, but look—“ He points to another article alongside of the video clip. “He also did some damage in the Bible Belt with that crazy, hoo-hah church. Said something about hypocrites.”

“He’s the one to talk,” Dean snaps, as Sam, determined to be the calm one in this situation, asks, “About what?”

Bobby waves his hand. “Gay people. The so-called church are the ones who picket at soldiers’ funerals, who stand by the roadside and act like idjits in the name of the Good Book. The leader once crashed a 9/11 memorial service to babble about God’s punishment for sins and shit.”

“Are there any survivors?” Sam cranes his neck to look at the page.

“The ones who didn’t really want to be part of that game, for one.” Bobby explains. “But listen, we’re not here to take sides and eat popcorn and wave pom-poms while God punishes the wicked.”

Dean’s expression is thoughtful, and his teeth are digging slowly into his lower lip. His brother refuses to look at both of them as he speculates, “Come on, Bobby, the KKK? And that wacko church? He let the innocent live.”

Sam knows what Dean’s thinking, and so does Lucifer, who’s smirking behind his hand in the corner of Bobby’s front room.

“Maybe so,” Bobby replies dryly. “But it always ends badly, when you have absolute power like that. Cas is the judge and jury, boy.”

“But he let them _live.”_ Dean repeats. _“_ Come on, that has to mean something.”

Bobby sighs. “I know you have faith in him, son, but how likely is it that Cas is still in there?”

“He’s in there.” Sam blurts and nearly jumps when the two men immediately swing their heads to look straight at him. “Maybe you can talk him down.” Sam pauses before continuing: “The dream. Was Cas talking to you?”

His brother’s laugh is definitely forced. “Oh, he was talking. But I doubt he’ll be listening.”

“He kind of listened to you. You have mercy, don’t you?”

“Bobby’s the one who saved my ass. And seven days, don’t you remember? He wants me to bow down and swear myself holy to the Church of Godstiel. You really think he’ll bless me when I say no? If I don’t do what he wants, shit’s going to go down. He broke your wall, Sammy. What could he do to Bobby, you again, me?”

But it sounds like Dean is trying to convince _himself_.

“He did say that he wouldn’t hurt you,” Sam points out.

Dean is silent, and Sam knows what he won’t say out loud. It’s too gone for that: Cas already has.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Dean’s never visited Stull.

Lisa brought it up, once, during one of those days when Dean couldn’t pull himself out of bed. Dean had never contemplated surrender. With Sam at his side, they were two against the world, odds be damned, and they could do anything together. It had been that way since Sam learned how to shoot a gun and search for local deaths in crowded library cabinets, and it had stayed that way since. When Dad died, his final wish for his eldest son was to kill Sammy if the demon blood overtook him, and Dean thought: _never._ He felt an explicable rush of anger at his father, something he know thinks he should have felt a long time ago.

How could his father ask that of him to kill his little brother? The same kid who waited until midnight on Christmas Eve for Santa to knock on the motel’s door; the same little brat who point-blank refused to eat another box of dried-up cereal; and the same brother whom Dean had stayed up for more times he could count, keeping watch when a close call was too close for comfort.Without Sam, Dean’s world was a gaping hole, as wide and deep as the pit Sam had thrown himself into. It didn’t matter that Lucifer and Michael were locked in the Cage, that they had saved the world, again. There was a finality: Sam was gone. His brother, _his baby_ _brother,_ was gone, and he wasn’t coming back. There was no demon deal to rescue Sam this time.

 _I can’t._ He told Lisa. _It wouldn’t be closure. It would kill me._

Now, Dean finds himself in a field, grass bent into light-yellows and browns. The iron gate is still there. Dean remembers the hopeful triumph of driving through that gate in the Impala, blasting _Rock of the Ages_ to stall the battle; it’s still there. The only thing he feels now is disgust, disgust at his careless cockiness, disgust at himself for thinking he could save the day, disgust that he failed his little brother that time.

 _Never again,_ he thinks. _Never again._

Dean turns around, half-expecting to see the giant, yawning pit in the dying grass, and gasps in horror.

There are hundreds—no, thousands—of men and women dressed in crisp black-and-white suits, sprawled across the wide expanse of the field. Some of them have their eyes closed, some are clutching a blade in their hand, and some look utterly fearful. All of them are dead. The grass is scorched with ashes of wings, overlapping again and again, spread wide.

“They did not believe.”

Dean doesn’t need to look up to recognize the voice. He doesn’t want to; he can’t. The dead angels are still, utterly so, and the air now smells of smoke and ashes.

“Why?” Dean breathes. _They were your family. Your brothers. You apologized every damn time you had to fight them. And now you’ve killed them._ He wonders if Cas drew it out, one by one, or simply knifed them in the back.

“They defied me and stood with Raphael. They wanted the Apocalypse.”

It’s so damn final, a firm slam of the gavel. “I heard what you did to those people. This is just another Apocalypse, now of your own making.” Dean shakes his head and scoffs. The _irony_. “You’re not too different from Raphael.”

Cas holds both of his hands out, palms to the sky like a balancing scale. It reminds Dean of the disciples on the stained glass in Pastor Jim’s church, penitent and pleading. “I am different. It’s poetic justice. They deserved this fate.”

“To die?” Dean can’t take his eyes off the bodies.

“They didn’t deserve mercy.”

Dean finally turns to face him, his hands clenched into shivering fists.

“How can you choose this? This isn’t free will. You can’t judge people like that.” His voice seems hollow, doubt having carved out what little hope he can muster having to face yet another fallen friend. Is Cas even listening to him anymore?

“They brought this on themselves. They made the wrong choices. My decision is righteous, and I have no need for fools in my kingdom.”

It’s the second day, Dean remembers. Five more days until the timer runs out, before Cas decides to do God knows what with him, Sam, and Bobby. Will Cas look him square in the eyes when he kills him? Will he call Dean a fool?

“You are no God,” Dean says. “And you’re not Cas. Cas wouldn’t do this.” Of that, he’s certain. He knows Cas. He does.

“Do you?” Damn son of a bitch read his mind; he had forgotten that little tidbit. Cas rolls his head back and laughs, full of mocking derision but with a tinge of pain, and Dean can see Cas of the doomed future, the broken shell of the angel who raised him from Hell and laid his life on the line for him more times Dean could count. “How well do you truly know me?”

There was Jimmy’s sneer again, twisted in scorn. _You don’t trust me, but you trust an angel who stole my life._

 _Of course I trust Cas—I don’t know you._ Dean snapped back, but they both cut their argument short when Sam returned to the motel room, refreshed but wary. Soon afterwards, his brother had taken the first watch, but Dean laid awake for almost all of it, turning the conversation in his mind. _I know Cas. I know him._  

How well did he really know him, the angel of the Lord? Enough to trust him when Cas slammed him against the wall of the green room, palm laid over his mouth, fingers digging into flesh. Cas had looked him in the eyes, intense but searching his face for an assent, and Dean just _knew,_ then nodded.

Things had been different since then. Dean often prided himself on his ability to communicate with Cas without words, as simple as a blink, thinking he knew how to read the unspoken words in the angel’s eyes. But how long had he stared at Cas throughout these months, not seeing what had been obvious? When had he stopped being able to read all the subtle cues and pick out something separate from what was given to him?

Maybe the year apart changed both of them. Maybe he lost something in the slow months of barbeques and playing catch with Ben and bumping hips with Lisa in the tiny kitchen. Cas hadn’t lost anything—hell, he knew just how to pull the wool over his eyes, sing the same repetitive tune over and over, and turn away so Dean wouldn’t be able to see him anymore.

“Where were you, then?” Dean demands. Where had Cas been during that year of drinking himself to sleep, fighting with Lisa in hushed tones away from Ben’s room, tossing and turning in bed, avoiding calls from Bobby?

Cas doesn’t say anything. Instead, he touches Dean’s forehead, almost gently, with two fingers, and Dean wakes up again to Sam shaking his shoulder.

* * *

 When Sam changed schools for the fifth time in one month, he had it a point to remember certain details. Even as the classes and teachers and other friends that never wrote blurred together, Sam fought to recall things that made the stay pleasant. There was Amy Pond, a bakery with a cheerful waitress who snuck him some free cookies, an English teacher who encouraged him to make his own path, a guy who showed him how to navigate the library’s weird cataloguing system, and a lot more. Sam held those memories like a brand to his heart, pulling them out to drive out the dull acceptance of what seemed like the long and endless road of salting and burning.

When he finally left it for what seemed for good, Sam noticed some of the hunting life hadn’t quite left him. He still subtly salted the windows and doors, avoided going out in the dead of night, kept a knife in his desk drawer, and could beat four guys in one sitting at a bar brawl. But Sam still remembered tiny details that seemed insignificant but fit together in a puzzle, some things he picked out faster than the rest of his classmates—subtle things, little eye twitches, tiny pauses of hesitance, a bead of uncertainty.

His brother is not exactly subtle, but Sam knows when his older brother is hiding something, and he doesn’t need Lucifer cackling madly in his head to know Dean had another dream visit from Cas.

Sam isn’t sure how to breach the topic with him, but he thinks Bobby may have the right idea of avoiding it like the plague and giving nothing but orders. Dean focuses on them in a way Sam hasn’t seen since before Dad died. His brother, who normally runs the other way when Sam boots up his laptop, dives into research. He flips the pages of the tome he’s reading so quickly, he actually rips it straight down the middle.

Sam calls an impromptu break and digs out a can of beans and sloppy roast beef sandwiches from the fridge. Dean chews morosely, as if he’s not really tasting it, and watches silently as another reporter shivers when she describes the massacre of some terrorist group in Syria. The camera makes a point to only show a close-up shot of the woman’s face, and the way she shudders when she looks towards her right gives Sam the chills. He looks at Dean’s face and the vacant horror sends a roil of uneasiness into his stomach.

Dean opens his first can of beer soon after that.

It’s like Dean is trying to shut himself out, and Sam keeps thinking, _What did Cas say to him? What’s Dean thinking?_ The leftovers of Dean’s half-eaten sandwich stay exactly the way they are. Sam even makes a quick jaunt to the grocery store while Dean is tracking down the falls of more than fifteen terrorist groups and buys steaming-hot beef stew and freshly-baked pie.

Dean smiles when he sees the contents, but he doesn’t scarf it down with the disgusting enthusiasm Sam’s used to. He chews mechanically at the beef cubes and sort of scrapes at the cinnamon-encrusted apple filling before putting it into his mouth. Admittedly, that does sort of cheer Dean up, but the slow consumption of the dessert worries Sam.

Sam and Bobby stare. Dean notices and snaps, “The hell’re you looking at? What, is it a crime to eat now?”

“Dean…” Sam hesitantly starts. “What…what did you dream about?”

The chair screeches when Dean skids it backwards over the floorboards and nearly tips over as he rises from his seat. “I’m going to bed,” he announces stiffly, and stomps his way up the stairs. Conversation over.

“Figures,” Bobby mutters underneath his breath.

Sam silently follows his brother after a few minutes. He’s crashed on the bed with his jacket and boots on. Dean rolls over, groaning something Sam can’t make out, and relaxes. He looks strangely… _content,_ and Lucifer cackles with unrestrained glee, shaking his head.

“ _Figures,”_ he says.

* * *

When Dean opens his eyes, he’s standing in Lisa’s backyard.

The coat around his shoulders hangs open, revealing a simple suit and backwards blue tie, but he is not cold. All he feels is profound sadness, with a bone-deep surge of affection.

There’s a man in a bulky blue jacket in the middle of the yard, looking around at the brown autumn leaves at his feet. He hauls out a rake from the decrepit little tool shed, then some big, black garbage bags, and looks over at the house. Waving to someone in the kitchen, he checks the watch on his wrist, then gets to work.

Dean watches himself rake leaves.

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

Crowley was proud to say that he had no daddy issues, thank you very much.

Sure, he had given those annoying, freakish Winchesters the Colt to kill his father, but anyone who made you, then denounced you, was worth shooting. Of course, after the Winchesters failed in their little endeavor, he was forced to help those insufferable brats and remembered, at the same time, why he liked hands-on work. Making them come to him, the ultimate enemy, was—well, there’s nothing like it.

When people royally screwed up, they liked to blame the Devil, and Crowley disliked the misplaced credit. The thing about the Devil is that people who don’t know any better assume that demons flock to him, as fangirls run down the streets, trying to get a piece of that Bieber kid’s hair. Crowley, most assertively, did not run to anyone. He was the King of Hell, damn it **!** He had respect and power people would sell their souls for. (Not that he’d trade it for anything, a thousand souls or no.)

Not anymore.

The new god was busy smiting the unrighteous—Crowley felt a few of his own contracted souls settle, screaming, into Hell—but it was only a matter of time before he caught up with him. Crowley, after all, had managed to escape in the midst of ensuing chaos.

When Castiel had snapped his fingers and blew the archangel to bits—temporarily staining his new suit, to his dismay, might he add—Crowley thought he was done for. From the big-headed angel’s perspective, Crowley had stopped every one of Castiel’s goals in its tracks: protecting the Winchesters, protecting people who were associated with the Winchesters…the list went on like that.

It didn’t take a genius to figure it all out.

Angels don’t have souls, but this—the whole thing was a dangerous, reckless game with a potentially advantageous outcome if the King of Hell could corrupt an angel. And it was so _easy._ He saw the angel standing oh-so-mournfully at the Winchester, raking leaves in a quaint little suburb like an average civilian. He saw the angel begin to step forward, hesitate, then ultimately refuse to move for a good half-hour, the angel’s usual stone-faced, stoic look melting into unmistakable affection, something secret and profound and –God forbid it—almost _holy._

He saw the opportunity and snapped it up. Crowley had been dealing with this kind of thing for centuries, could decipher the hidden sins and desires of those whomwere easily vulnerable, and offer them the exact thing, the perfect thing, that would damn them for eternity without hesitation. There was _nothing_ like it.

There was nothing like slowly, _slowly_ tugging out the subtle strands of desperation from the angel, watching him scramble to pick up the pieces and ultimately stumble into the path Crowley had carefully tailored for him. Everyone down under knew that the Winchesters, with their sidekick angel, were not to be tested. However, none but Crowley knew how deceptively easy it was to play the right notes and make an angel of the Lord dance to his tune and thus betray his closest and only friends for the sake of saving them.

It was not meant to last. Castiel had been cooperative to a certain point, but Crowley had been a fool to assume he was dealing with a tame, obedient soldier and not someone who can blast him into bits and try to rein in their big plan for the sake of Dean Winchester.

Crowley could understand that—well, not personally, but by examples of certain doomed souls—but they both made a _deal._ Crowley, as despicable as he knew he was, didn’t break deals. (On occasion, he did _bend_ the deal—but semantics.) You’d think an _angel_ would know better.

Upstarting types like him needed to be taught a lesson, but Crowley was no idiot. Castiel was now powered up with over a million souls from Purgatory. To launch a straight attack would be suicide.

Crowley wasn’t Lucifer, and he wasn’t the new god, but you know what?

He was better, and the King of Hell would become the King of the Universe.

* * *

 

 Bobby wakes up to silence, and he remembers: Eleanor is dead.

No one will ever mean to him the same as Karen, but every loss was just another thing that lay in regrets. Recently, it had been Rufus Turner, someone whom he could never pay back, not for giving him the tools and knowledge to survive or causing the death of his sister. And more recently, Eleanor, a creature of Purgatory but utterly and woefully human.

Maybe he and John had something in common—both were moved by vengeance, the deaths of their loves, and dove headfirst into the supernatural without looking back, becoming as strong as one possibly could, as if to make up for the weakness in the past. But no matter how many sons of bitches he took down or how many families he saved, he always remembered he couldn’t save his own.

He and Eleanor were like Lisa and Dean, almost, a short time in the many long years of others, but that didn’t make it any less special. He cared for her deeply, more than he probably should have and still does. If John were alive, he’d be raring to send her back to monster land, calling Bobby out of his mind and utterly underneath her spell or something of that nature. She was a monster, something to be feared; she was _unknown_ —but Bobby loved her, loved her as if she were human, loved her even though she could have easily slit his throat in bed. (He’s pretty sure his instincts would have prevented that, but just as an example.)

Eleanor was buried in the wake of Cas being the Incredible Hulk of souls and essentially trying to remake the world. She was lost in the endless page turnings of rituals and spells, lost in Sam’s Lucifer hallucinations, lost in Dean’s—

Dean. He wasn’t sure what to do with that boy. He helped raise him in a way he hoped he could have done if Dean was his blood; he knew Dean was not made for salts and burns and sawed-off shotguns, but was molded—too gentle of a word—into a miniature version of John. Hell, the boy reminded Bobby of himself at that age: obedient, too scared to say anything beyond _yes, sir_ , and seething on the inside, bottling it up and letting it spoil over the years like rotten wine.

He wasn’t exactly sure what Cas meant to Dean. They’d been fighting like cats and dogs even before the God mess, pushing each other away back and forth, then ending up running towards the other in the end. Bobby hadn’t exactly had a heart-to-heart with Cas, but he knew that Cas saw Dean like some sort of replacement god when his daddy bailed, as if the sun shone right out of his ass, and clung onto him as only a faithless angel could to an idgit like Dean Winchester.

Dean is at the kitchen table, now, writing down things on pieces of paper Bobby had left lying around, while Sam’s making coffee in the kitchen, asking Dean if he wants the last slices of bacon. Dean huffs a non-committing _mmhm_ and sips listlessly at his bottle of Bobby’s own stash of beer.

“It’s early in the morning, son, and you’re stealing from my supply now?”

“There’s none left in the fridge,” Dean retorts, tilting the bottle further, as if to spite him.

  “What do you mean there’s not? There’s been a pack in there—“

“Dean drank it all, Bobby,” Sam quietly interrupts. “Cas just wiped out a whole bunch of people at this worldly religious conference.”

That explains it. Bobby sighs and shakes his head, plopping his ass down on the seat across from Dean.

Dean violently scribbles on the paper before replying archly, “What? Are we starting an AA session all of the sudden? Both of you drink and I don’t hassle you.”

“We don’t try to down a whole keg before breakfast.”

“Bobby, come on, it’s just one.” Dean scowls at the book, clearly pissed off. 

Sam then directly changes the subject, raising his voice to be heard over the rickety, hissing coffee machine. “Listen, there might be a way to fix this. There’s this spell mentioned in the book Dean’s got—“

Bobby peers over and sucks in his breath at the sheer idiocy of a Winchester. “You’re talking about binding Death? You’re lucky Death seems to at least tolerate your troubled souls, so do you really want to push it?”

“He put up Sam’s wall,” Dean points out.

“He wasn’t too happy about that, the whole _don’t scratch the_ wall, and look how well that turned out. No offence, Sam.”

“None taken,” Sam wearily replies, pouring the coffee into mugs and tipping the bacon onto a plate. “But Bobby’s right, Dean. Even if we catch Death and bribe him with all the junk food in Illinois, what are we going to do with Cas?”

“What do you mean ‘what’re we going to do’? We’re going to help him. Bobby, you’re studying the ritual, right? Is there any way to—“

“It doesn’t seem likely, Dean.” Bobby hates himself when Dean’s hopeful face drops, and he hates himself more that it seems more and more likely Cas isn’t going to be the same if a miracle happens and saves him—if he even makes it. “We need the actual spell, for one, and the eclipse that’s needed is just twenty-hour hours away.”

All that does is harden Dean’s features into rigid determination. “So we find the spell, summon Death, get his help to—to stop Cas—start the research—“

“Dean,” Sam interrupts, setting down the mugs and food in the center of the table. “It’s Death we’re talking about. It’s a possibility that…”

“No.” Dean looks as if he wants to flip over the table or throw the beer bottle across the room, but there’s uncertainty and denial, as if he can’t muster the strength to do anything. It’s not sinking in for him. “Come on, Sam. He’s—he’s crazy, and I want him stopped as much as you do, but—“ 

“Dean, he’s gone.” Sam gently replies, sitting down at his place and taking a mug.

Dean vehemently shakes his head. “No. He said—“ He then immediately clamps his mouth shut.

“Are you talking about Cas? What did he say to you, Dean?”

“Nothing, Sam,” Dean snaps. “I—“ He keeps his gaze firmly locked on the ritual, a picture of the Grim Reaper standing in the middle of a dark room. “He’s still in there, Sam. I…just know, okay?”

“If you’re having any more of those sleep messages—“

“We’re done talking, Sam. Let’s just start researching.”

The matter is closed, and Bobby sighs, silently this time. Dean’s always been stubborn, but Cas—his refusal to believe the angel was a monster, the fact that Cas can snap his fingers and unmake him within a split second, the idea that they were still living because Cas gave mercy to—

 _Eleanor_ , he suddenly thinks, and nearly chokes on the bitter coffee. _Damn it, boy, what have you gotten yourself into? First Lisa, now Cas—you have a knack for this kind of thing, don’t you?_

* * *

 

 “Ben! Ben, are you listening to me? Come home by ten; I mean it this time—you’re done with the movie, right?”

“Yes, Mom,” Ben drawls back on the other end of the line, reminding Lisa of something she can’t quite place, green eyes, and immediately puts it out of her mind. She’s dated a lot of guys—dating being somewhat of a loose term—and Ben usually picks up something from them: a few new swear words, an affinity for classic rock, pick-up lines, and way more knowledge about certain things you shouldn’t tell a kid. Ben’s been more responsible lately, caring and concerned, since the car accident, pulling his weight more and helping Lisa since she keeps grimacing and clutching her stomach, almost as if she’s been stabbed. The doctors said the whole recovery was a miracle in and of itself—no internal bleeding or anything lethal—the only thing she had to worry about was maybe getting therapy from the traumatic experience…which she didn’t remember at all.

The move had been unplanned, but Lisa was antsy, and just—there were factors, this strange urge to leave, as if she no longer belonged here. She bought a new house soon after the so-called horrific event, something that only came to her in flashes—fear, worry, Ben wailing, gunshots—and worked two jobs, as a yoga instructor and a recreational sports coach.

And there was _Dean._

When she was packing up, her neighbors asked about _Dean_ , if he was the cause of the move, and she had shaken her head, she didn’t remember the name at all, and she noticed when the neighbors clucked their tongues and said, _No wonder she doesn’t want to talk about him, running off like that…I heard he hurt Ben…I heard they fought…I heard she wanted him to stay…he was nothing but trouble, distant and weird…_

You’d think she’d remember someone like that, but nothing, frustratingly nothing, but lives easily changed—Ben enrolled in school without any trouble, the neighbors were kind, and the whole area was relatively quiet, even for a small town in Indiana. Lisa had once lived there as a little kid and thought it would be nice to go back, getting a job at the local parks and recreation department, teaching yoga and other alternative forms of exercising, like dancing or cycling. It all seemed perfect.

Until this psychotic serial killer started exploding people. Lisa didn’t know exactly how—bombs or guns or homemade weapons—but it was enough to pull Ben out of school, which he hated, and enroll him in a homeschooling program on the computer. She worried she was being paranoid, but Amelia next door had done the same with her daughter, Claire, who was nearly the same age as Ben. Amelia was quiet and said little, but Lisa liked her. She seemed world-weary, but loved her daughter more than anything—Lisa knew how she felt—and was fiercely protective. She could shoot a _gun,_ of all things.

Amelia talked little about her ex-husband, someone who once sold air time on some sort of religious channel and apparently had to leave for some reason, and Lisa respected her privacy. She had had her fair share of relationships gone wrong, and there were more things to talk about: books, food, their jobs, their children, music, and small snippets of life if they saw each other or simply wanted to pick up the phone and call, usually at the end of the day.

Claire and Ben were at the movies now—“studying,” Ben had claimed, but Lisa had noticed he was dressed unusually nice for a study sessions, and Claire accidentally let it slip that she was going to see a movie that weekend—and Amelia was putting in hours at a hospital. Lisa had finished her paperwork early, and was thinking about maybe kicking back and watching some television when her phone rang.

Probably Claire and Ben were done, needed to be picked up from their after-movie dinner, and Lisa was already searching for the keys when something made her freeze in fear.

“…Ms. Braedon, it’s Ben. Someone—someone grabbed him, and you’re not going to believe me—but it’s my dad.”

“Your…your dad?” Lisa’s heart is pounding so frantically; this isn’t making sense. “What about your dad?”

“He took Ben. He…” Claire stammers, trips on her words. “Listen, Ms. Braedon, I don’t know what he’s been up to, but—look, call Mom, hide, tell her that—“

Lisa is running out the door, running for the car, Claire needs to be picked up, too—but just as she reaches for the handle, she bangs right into someone, solid and strong.

It’s a man, dark-haired with blue eyes, and Lisa’s about to say something like, _please, I’m in a_ hurry—is he from the neighborhood?—when two fingers descend, feather-light, on her forehead.


	5. Chapter 5

“Hey, heads up!”

Dean’s hands snap up to catch the ball on pure instinct, right by the tips of his fingers, and Ben claps, grinning widely.

“Nice reflexes,” Lisa comments, just now sidling out of the house. “Did you play baseball as a kid?”

“No,” Dean replies. He remembers he was in t-ball before his mother died and Bobby once convincinghim to ditch hunting practice in favor of playing a small game of catch. _A hunter needs quick reflexes_ , Bobby justified to Dad when he came back and flipped his shit over the lack of shotgun training, but Dean knew the old man had really wanted Dean to have some fun for once and be a normal kid—as normal a messed-up kid like him could be. 

“Well, you’re good,” Ben says, still looking impressed. “I didn’t think you’d catch it.”

“And what, give myself a concussion?” Dean mock-scolds Ben, who looks a cross between a bit shame-faced and _aw, come on, Mom_ when Lisa folds her arms and gives him a _look_ , but Dean winks and ruffles his hair. “Just kidding, sport. Let’s see how well you catch. Wanna join in, Lis?”

“Sure,” Lisa agrees, stepping forward and bending her knees, at ready. “Nice, sunny day for it, too. Maybe we should have a picnic sometime. You finished cleaning out the garage and raking the leaves, I got the paperwork done with some classes, Ben has his homework all finished…right, young man?”

Ben catches the ball nearly perfectly and tosses it with ease to his mother. “Well—“

“Benjamin Isaac Braedon!” Lisa scolds lightly, throwing the ball with a wicked curve towards Dean, who nearly fumbles and drops it right on the ground. “It’s Saturday!”

“People don’t finish it on the first day of the weekend, Mom! And Mr. Roberts is so _ugh_ —“

Dean’s missed out on all of this, all this parental banter, long and lazy days, and complaining about homework because they stayed out with some friends all night instead of because they had to help their dad hunt a vampire and stitch up their brother’s leg. He _likes_ it. Ben isn’t his blood, and Lisa isn’t his wife, but he’s happy. He likes doing these normal things.

There’s an emptiness, though. There’s a big piece of himself that died when Sam did, there’s a stomach-churning sense of guilt when Bobby calls and Dean lets it go to voicemail, and there’s an ache in his chest when a night passes without a dream or so much as a flutter of wings. Sam can’t come back. Bobby is miles away, but seeing Bobby would remind him of Sam. Cas—Cas can come back, right? How long does it take to settle into Heaven?

Maybe time flows differently in Heaven as in Hell. Maybe only a day has passed for Cas up there, and he’s…forgotten him. Maybe he was relieved to be back home and be the new sheriff. Maybe he was tired of slumming it with mud monkeys.

Deep down, Dean knows that it’s untrue. Cas likes humanity. He _rebelled_. He was…he was—

“Hey, Dean!” Ben shouts, just as he lets the ball go. Dean barely catches it, and Lisa laughs at his stunned face. Apparently, he hadn’t been paying as much attention as he thought.

“Penny for your thoughts, Dean?” Lisa smiles, a flicker of concern wavering in her eyes. It’s been a while since Dean couldn’t get to bed without finishing a bottle of beer, and longer since he woke Lisa up in the next room with screams, but this kind of thing still managed to stop him right in his tracks. He had a damn near panic attack when the grill flared up two weeks ago, and the sound of a kid screaming made him run right for the house. (The kid, it turned out, didn’t want to eat his dinner.) Dean also had a tendency to stare into space, lost in memories he still needed to process. Lisa suggested therapy, but no amount of therapy could help him forget the pit that swallowed his baby brother down into Hell with Michael and Lucifer.

“I’m good,” he reassures her. Ben looks a bit worried, so Dean lobs the ball at him with a quick “heads up!” and a suggestion to make some burgers for the weekend—

“Hey,” Lisa says suddenly, touching his shoulder. “Do you want something?”

There’s a man hanging over the fence, dark-haired and blue-eyed, with a tan trenchcoat. He’s looking on with almost detached curiosity, and Dean frowns—is he a neighbor?—then…

“Hello.” The man greets them in a seriously gravelly voice, like he’s been gargling pebbles.

Dean’s mind quickens with flashes—lightbulbs shattering, barn doors slowly opening, a man stepping forward slowly, shadows of wings on a wall…

And he remembers. Lisa and Ben are gone. They don’t even remember him. This isn’t his life, or what he deserves. It’s the fourth day.

“Scram,” Dean snaps.

“Dean, don’t be rude,” Lisa says, with an apologetic frown. “I’m sorry,” she continues, turning to Cas. “Can we help you with anything?”

Cas smiles slowly. To an observer, he would seem innocent, almost benevolently kind, if a bit quirky, but Dean knows him. There’s trickery lying beneath the surface. “I need to speak to Dean.”

“You know Dean?” Lisa asks curiously, but Dean’s in front of her before Cas can answer, shielding her with his own body and putting out his arm to stop her or Ben from getting near the angel crashing their home.

“Ben, Lisa, get in the house.” Dean orders, not taking his eyes off of him.

“Dean?” Lisa sounds alarmed, and from the corner of his eye, he sees her motion to Ben to get into the house. Ben obeys, still clutching the baseball, and blue eyes watch him as he goes, shutting the door behind him.

“Get in the house, Lis.” Dean tries to keep his voice calm but with a hint of warning. “I’ll handle this.”

Lisa slowly backs away, still watching the intruder, and finally makes it to the house safely. Dean hopes to God she understood him and is busy locking the windows and doors and grabbing the shotgun in the closet. It wouldn’t do much but slow him down, and Dean’s willing to sacrifice himself so Lisa can draw the angel banishing sigil. He taught it to her first thing when his long depression was over, and Lisa, bemused, had nodded and copied it on a sheet of notebook paper. She wasn’t particularly religious, but Lisa regarded angels as most people did: untouchable, pure, and holy. They were not equal to the monsters Dean had ganked over the years.

“That was impolite,” Cas says rather calmly.  “It’s customary for humans to invite a close friend in to introduce them to their family.”

 _Cut the innocent angel crap._ Cas has eyes Dean doesn’t like—dancing with mirth, liking how Dean’s jaw tightens in stress and anger, smiling in the face of this situation. They’re empty, in a way that they never were, and filled with secrets. Dean could admit that he didn’t always know Cas’ thoughts in those days, but there was always _something_ lurking in there, a tiny, resistant spark.

Now, Cas looks almost pleased that he freaked him out so much. It’s so different from—from…Dean recalls the feeling of warmth and affection, lingering in the backyard with piles of leaves.

“If you had come back then,” he says. “I would have invited you in.”

Cas raises an eyebrow. “Would you have really? I thought you were happy. No disturbances.”

Dean’s next words are quiet. “I thought you would show up.”

“I did.”

“Why didn’t you speak to me, then? I could have helped.”

Cas looks down and shakes in head, and even though Dean can’t see his expression, he’s sure Cas is distressed and regretful.

“I realize now that I couldn’t have. Raphael was too powerful and would have killed you, Lisa, and Ben, too, as punishment for my…defiance.”

“We could have figured it out. We did stop Lucifer, after all.” Dean’s certain of it. They could have called Bobby, the whole network of hunters, researched something—

Cas breaks him out of his thoughts with “We couldn’t stop Lucifer without Sam.”

His tone, Dean hears, is blank, as if it’s rehearsed, and in a way, it sort of is. These…dreams are Cas’ territory, not his, not his safe space from Hell anymore. His own head isn’t safe from Cas, and with that realization, Dean snaps out of the moment.

“Sam is a hero. He’s your friend. Why did you break his wall?”

“Try to understand—“ Cas starts, but Dean doesn’t want any more excuses.

“No. There were other options, but you chose to make him suffer.”

“Sam refused to cooperate.” Dean begins to slowly walk backwards as Cas opens the gate and steps into the yard. The rake is in the toolshed, along with the shovel and power drill. They won’t hurt Cas—not in this domain—but if push comes to shove…

Cas continues, a razor balancing on the edge of his words: “I can make it worse.”

“Don’t hurt him!” Dean exclaims. “You’re not Cas—“ _He’s not. He’s not._

Cas only stands like marble. “Cas,” he repeats, as if saying a foreign word for the first time. “Perhaps I allowed you too many liberties. You’ve shortened my name, changed its meaning entirely—made it like a pet’s, a dog yanked around by an ungrateful master, too stupid to realize he’s only loved if he obeys.”

He’s close, now, much too close, even though Cas has been in Dean’s personal space for so long he rarely realized it anymore. Cas is close enough to touch him, to wind fingers around his neck and squeeze, or—

“You never minded it,” Dean says, his voice no louder than a breath.

Cas’ hand drops to his shoulder and presses down hard. “You treated me as an equal. Perhaps…” His breath is warm, and Dean’s shoulder begins to ache, as if it’s being slowly crushed underneath the deceptively human hands. “I confused you.” The pressure increases, slowly, until Dean feels his knees beginning to bend.

It’s like a shot being fired. “You want me to bow,” Dean says, and he can’t breathe. “You don’t want me as a friend, not really.” He feels like he can fall right through the earth, down, _down, **down.**_

“We are not friends,” Cas—Castiel— _God_ intones, stepping backwards, and Dean was left cold. “You refused that when you refused me.”

“You worked with Crowley. You knew what was happening the whole time.” Each affirmation is a shard to his chest, slowly sinking in, letting the pain wake him up. “You let Crowley take Lisa and Ben.”

“Tell me,” the new god begins, almost kindly. “Do you still care for them?”

The shards twist, and hot anger seems to drain away, leaving something like resignation underneath. “What have you done?”

The stranger simply nods. “Think of my offer, Dean,” he suggests, and Cas is gone.

* * *

 " _Hello, you have reached the voicemail of Lisa Braedon. I’m sorry, but I can’t answer at this time, so please leave a message and I’ll get back—“_

His fingers are shaking when he hangs up, then dials another number. It takes over five tries to get it right.

_“Hey, it’s Ben! Leave a message, and uh, I’ll try to call you back. Um, yeah—“_

“No luck?” Sam asks sympathetically.

Dean feels as if he’s dead again, watching his body heave itself up from the chair and lean against the wall. There’s weights in his mind, his head, his feet and arms. “We have to track them down. We have to—“ 

“Deep breaths, boy,” Bobby advises, but Dean isn’t listening. _Lisa and Ben, Lisa and Ben, all my fault, all Cas’ fault, it’s the same again._

There’s talk of the hunter network, dismissals of Balthazar’s help (seeing as he was dead, another supposed friend of Cas’), more research and spells, but Dean only nods and swallows and tries to not look as if he’ll fall apart any second.

He has to get out. Dean pushes past Sam, nearly shoving Bobby in his haste to get to the door, and—there’s the King of Hell on their property.

Crowley smiles charmingly. “Hello, boys,” he greets, waving with the tips of his fingers. “I’d like to make a deal.”

Sam shakes his head violently, but Dean is numb, rooted to the spot, ears already perked. Bobby narrows his eyes—he must have sensed it—and crosses his arms, frowning.

“Why are you expectin’ in return?” Bobby inquires suspiciously.

Crowley only smiles.

“Dean,” he replies simply.


	6. Chapter 6

“That’s the only thing I want,” Crowley says, and Sam rolls his eyes. It wouldn’t be Crowley without some ulterior motive, but what did they expect? Crowley did come to them for help—which was unexpected in and of itself—but then again, Crowley always pulled seemingly unexpected stuff out of his ass that benefitted him in the end.

 _Guess who made him that way,_ Lucifer taunts, and Sam tries to ignore him. Not now. Not now.

“Let me guess,” Bobby replies sarcastically, crossing his arms. He’s none too fond of Crowley, and Sam doesn’t blame him. Selling his soul can mess with a guy’s head. “You need something from us that will either help you defeat the new kid on the block or get the hell outta dodge?”

Crowley smiles. “Ding, ding, ding. Correct.” He cocks his wrist and lightly points it in a single direction. “I just need to take the standard-size Winchester out for a spin.”

Sam whirls around to take in Dean’s reaction, but his brother is practically slumped against one of the old cars in the lot, eyes dull. When Sam catches his eyes, Dean simply stares right back, unblinking.

 _Which means I know how he thinks,_ Lucifer continues, more insistent. _Come on, Sam. Listen to me. I know you can hear me._

“You’re kidding, right?” Bobby snaps. “If you think we’re going to just—“

“Wait.” Dean speaks up, voice now hard, like boiled leather. “Let’s hear the slimy bastard try to explain himself.”

Lucifer cackles. _He’s given up, hasn’t he?_

 _No, he hasn’t,_ Sam argues back, but despite the tightness of his fists and the bold stance, Dean isn’t as in control as he thinks he is. He’s the same Dean from so long ago—closing up again, swallowing his emotions down, and pulling the collar of Dad’s leather jacket up to protect his neck. Vulnerable, coated in paper armor.

“I have a spell that can bind Death,” Crowley says. “If he agrees to help, then I can add a bonus one: to summon our new god here.”

“There’s no such thing.” Dean shakes his head.

“There is such a thing, my doubting Thomas,” the King of Hell shoots back. “I’ll supply the goods, but we need just one teensy, weensy thing: blood.”

“My blood?” Dean asks.

“No way,” Sam says.

“Don’t think this spell is all about you.” Crowley rolls his eyes again. “Castiel’s—“

“Oh, like we can pop up, nick Cas in the elbow, and drip it into a magical brew? Yeah, no thanks.” Dean turns away and starts walking back to the house. “Above our pay grade.”

“He’s right.” Bobby speaks up. “This is the most transparent deal you’ve ever made, Crowley. There’s no way this benefits us.”

Crowley spreads his arms out, placating. “Come on, this is for the greater good. Just like old times—“

“Like turning tail and making sure we’re the ones who lose?” Sam interrupts. He remembers Lucifer dropping like a bag of cement, Jo’s blood still drying on his hands, the smoke from the explosion being sucked into his nostrils every time he breathed. _Kick it in the ass._ He remembers the devil rising from the ground, with his arms outstretched, and he remembers the blow to his stomach, the flecks of blood underneath his fingernails, Dean’s shuddering gasp.

They’d lost a lot that night—they will never forgive themselves for losing part of their family—and they will never forget this: Crowley’s deals always end with pain.

Lucifer shakes his head. _People always screw themselves over like that for love, Sammy. Remember that for a change._

* * *

 “Hey, Lis, how are you feeling?”

Lisa struggles to see her sister’s face as her eyelids begin to drop again. The drugs are slowly wearing off, and her head still feels asif it were stuffed with cotton balls that had been shoved through her ears. There’s a steady, but muted, pain below her waist, as well as a thudding in her head. Thin blankets are strewn carefully over her body, and Lisa stares uncomprehendingly at the white-washed walls, a sharp, sterile smell being sucked into her nose. 

“Where…where am I?” she asks, grimacing when pain in her head rams into the middle of her forehead, as deft as a needle. She remembers the sudden flash of blue eyes, and sits up in alarm. _My son_. “Where’s Ben? Where’s—“ 

“Ben’s just being cleaned up and measured and all that legal crap.” Her sister leans in to pat her shoulder. “Are you already getting mother’s anxiety? That’s just like you, Lis.”

“No—there was…” Lisa closes her eyes, trying to bring back the images. Dark hair. A tan coat. That’s all she can recall, and the thrumming in her head doesn’t help. Her sister continues talking, carrying on a one-sided conversation, gesturing wildly with her hands. Her hair is pulled back, the same color as Lisa’s, and her eyes are bright with excitement.

“…Mom and Dad were held up at the airport, which sucks. I’m surprised they wanted to come, you know—“

It’s slowly dawning on Lisa. These walls, this conversation, this bed…it’s—

A tiny blue bundle is placed in her arms, and Ben blinks up at her with sleepy eyes. Lisa’s overcome with a wash of love, of joy, of absolute happiness.

“Benjamin Braedon, what a lovely name,” the nurse behind her says, but Lisa isn’t listening. It’s been so long since she was able to hold her son like this, yet so frightening and profound, too. He’s so tiny and fragile, and Lisa immediately forgets the jackass who knocked her up in the first place and hightailed right out as soon as he found out. Ben is beautiful, in every sense of the word, and miraculous, and it doesn’t matter that her parents objected to her having a baby out of wedlock or that her body feels as if it’s been running through a marathon of razors. This is wonderful, the best day of her life—

This is not now. Ben is no longer an infant. Ben is gone, in the hands of some psycho, and she hasn’t seen her sister in a very long time. Lisa isn’t supposed to be here.

This is a memory.

Lisa grits her teeth as the pulse in her head scrapes against her skull, harder, more insistent. 

White walls like this. Pain. Pain greater than she’s ever felt in her gut. Gasping for breath. Ben screaming. 

And someone else, too, a man—someone she can’t recognize, his voice ripped raw with urgency and panic:

_Lisa!...We gotta get to a hospital…You’re gonna be fine. You’re gonna be just fine…please, please, please..._

Blood. Something lurking—twisting in her body—herself,screaming on the inside— _Dean, Dean, please, please, help me! Please!_

Lisa lets out the breath she’s been holding this entire time, watching the white walls melt away, her sister and Ben disappearing in tiny wisps of smoke.

_Dean._

* * *

 “What do you want?”

Crowley rolls his eyes, despite his position in the Devil’s Trap painstakingly painted in the salvage yard with old red paint. “You, you great big idiot. Weren’t you paying attention earlier?” He brushes an imaginary speck of dust from his suit. “You, Dean Winchester.”

 “As what? Bait?”

 Crowley winks at him. “You’re the only one who can stop him, Mary Jane.”

 Dean refuses to be baited. He watches smoke twist in the air and rubs his hands together. It’s so dark out here, and so cold. Bobby and Sam were sleeping, and as soon as he heard their collective snores at the kitchen table, Dean had pocketed all he could carry, as quiet as a mouse, and ran outside. He didn’t know if Crowley could hear him or not, but he yelled the bastard’s name as loudly in his head as he could.

It seems like there should be another way, like Dean hasn’t tried hard enough, hasn’t looked for more options, but he’s so goddamned tired. He feels as if a needle’s stuck inside his chest and is drawing the sap out, draining him. 

“He gave me seven days. Today is the fifth. Do what you have to do to find them.”

Crowley smiles, slowly. “Then, do we have a deal?”

Dean knows what this entails. He closes his eyes, and leans in.

* * *

 

“Who’s Cas?” Lisa asks, hand still on his shoulder. All that Lisa can hear are the crickets chirping outside her window. The red glare from her alarm clock reads 4 AM. The covers are drawn up over their heads, like children playing in a tent, and their heads are close together, foreheads touching. She’s whispering so she doesn’t wake Ben. 

She knows this routine. Sometimes Dean would talk, sometimes he wouldn’t, but lately, he’s gotten better at telling her things. About the pit Sam threw himself in, the snap of Bobby’s neck, even the fear that his brother wouldn’t snap out of it, would just go on and kill him. _I believed in Sam, I did—but what if. What if he—_

It’s taken so long for Dean to even speak Sam’s name, and Lisa thinks they’ve gone a long way. Dean no longer chugs beer like its water, Ben no longer hesitates to throw around the phrase _what the hell,_ and the only recent argument she can remember was a gentle bickering over beef versus turkey for this weekend’s little barbecue. Dean’s gotten so much better, and Lisa’s proud of him.

He still took the loss of his little brother’s death hard—not that Lisa could blame him—but he can speak to Lisa, like this, freely. 

Dean simply rolls over.

“A dick,” he says hoarsely, and Lisa somehow knows that’s the end of it.

It’s forgotten in the wake of the usual early morning rush, a frenzy of last-minute cleaning, and dragging out the grill for a trial run dinner. Ben and Dean start a game of catch while the burgers are cooking, and for one instant, when Lisa looks over the fence, there’s a man with blue eyes on the other side. He looks on, sadly, looking as if he’s lost the world, and before Lisa can say anything, he’s gone. 

She’s sure that her mouth is hanging open—because Dean laughs and waves a hand in front of her face.

 “Earth to Lis,” he says, grinning widely. “The burgers are ready. Let’s eat!”

Ben whoops, high-fiving him and manages to spill barbecue sauce down Dean’s shirt. Dean roars with false anger, and they shriek, laughing as they chase each other around the yard, and Lisa has to rush to save the burgers, laughing and egging them both on. 

And Lisa forgets about it.

 


	7. Chapter 7

In the movies Lisa used to watch with her sister, murmuring distinctly unladylike things about the male protagonists while munching popcorn, there was always a girl. Usually blue-eyed and blonde, she would be inevitably captured by the hero’s enemies. Most of the time, she’d be tossed into a private cell and brought out for the final climax, screaming for rescue, begging for the hero to save her.

Granted, Lisa isn’t exactly sure she’s in the same situation. For one, Dean Winchester—no matter how much he seemed to try in the unfolding recesses of her mind—was a grade-A dick. Her memories are returning, slowly but surely, and the most she can remember is pain. She remembers Ben being shoved against a wall, a beer bottle being thrown on kitchen tiles, herself being yanked right out her house—they were all jumbling in her head, crowding for space, but all Lisa can fully understand is that Dean Winchester fucked her over.

He left her, and he promised he wouldn’t.

She remembers hanging up a phone, fingers trembling: _did I say that to him? How could I say that to him?_ Then a wave of righteous anger: _I’m glad I did. He needed to know that._

Lisa tries to focus. She can analyze this later. Right now, she needs to find a way to escape, save her son, and find out what the hell is going on.

She thinks about the movies again. Sometimes the girl was unbelievably stupid. Sometimes the girl was resourceful. Lisa needed to be resourceful.

From what she could see, she’s in a warehouse, of all things. She feels as if she’s been clubbed over the head.

No. She hasn’t.

There were two fingers to her forehead.

Blue eyes. Dark hair. Trenchcoat. The same description of that nut-job serial killer on the news.

And now, she has another clue: _Cas._

 _Cas._ Dean may not have mentioned him during their year together, but she does recall mentions of him, vague snatches of midnight mutterings. They were mostly short, clipped words, but Lisa could sense the anger, the frustration, the impatience. _Dick angel keeps disappearing._

An _angel_ —Lisa tries to wrap her mind around that as she begins to move as quietly as she can. She hasn’t been tied or handcuffed or anything, a result of either confidence or carelessness, and she can only thank God she can move around freely. _God._ If angels were evil, Lisa’s due for some serious counseling. From what she knows, God and angels are _good._ They’re motivated by _love._ Forgiveness and all that. Apparently, in the crazy world she’s apparently part of, that’s completely false.

A groan fights for her attention, and Lisa’s limbs freeze up as she dares to look around the corner.

Lisa clamps one hand over her mouth.

There’s a monster. There’s a monster, _eating_ her son.

* * *

 

Sam _cannot_ believe this.

“Where did Dean go?” he curses, for the fortieth time, wanting to throw his laptop to the ground in utter frustration. His dumbass brother is missing, and it doesn’t take long for Bobby to find the lack of certain spell ingredients and a missing book. It’s obvious what Dean’s up to.

He can’t even track his cell: Dean had left it behind. Dean had also taken all of the things to summon a demon, the Impala, and his weapons. He had eve scribbled a hasty note: _don’t follow me. My fault. –Dean._

His thoughts are cut off by a shrill, insistent ring, and Sam snatches it up, pausing when he doesn’t recognize the number flashing across the screen.

 _Answer your phone, Sammy._ Lucifer orders, and Sam does. His head feels like it’s splitting in two, and it breaks even more when Sam ignores the devil.

“Castiel’s kidnapped my friend,” a young, female voice brusquely says, with no introduction. “You have to help.”

“Who is this?” Her voice sounds a little familiar, but not enough for Sam to recall a face. 

“Claire,” she answers impatiently. “Claire Novak, Jimmy’s daughter. The vessel of—”

 _Cas._ It had been so long ago, in a different time—hell, in a different life. To his shame, he remembers his lips at a woman’s throat, sucking blood in, in, into his mouth, relishing the iron taste, the _feel_ , like kickstarter jet engine fuel, making him feel like nothing he’s ever felt before—

_There is no good or evil. There is only power, and those too weak to seek it._

“Shut the hell up,” Sam snaps at Lucifer.

“Don’t you dare tell me to shut up, jackass,” Claire retorts angrily. “Listen, I don’t know exactly what’s going on, or why angels are suddenly kidnapping kids, but I need your help.”

“Kidnapping?” Sam’s mind works, and it all clicks together in one, smooth motion. “Ben. Lisa and Ben.”

“Shit, he has Ms. Braedon, too? Damn it. Why—“

“Long story short, Cas is using them as bait. We—mostly, Dean—knew them from a while back, and—“

“I see,” Claire huffs. “It’s always Dean, isn’t it?”

“What—“ Lucifer interrupts him with a belly-clutching spiel of laughter, and Sam grits his teeth as his head begins to fracture even more.

“Mom used to rant about him when she had too much to drink. Dad was gone the last time because of Dean, yeah?” She cuts herself off: “Whatever. Just—we need to find Castiel, and I have an idea.”

“Hit me.”

Claire breathes in, voice shuddery but strong. “When he—when Castiel possessed me—I…I still remember some things. You have a pen and paper?” 

* * *

The thing turns around at the horribly-loud gasp that escapes her lips.

Lisa stares, horrified. It’s human-shaped, covered in tattoos, and its eyes—its eyes are blue. Not regular human blue, but _glowing_. There’s blood around its lips, and its hand—its glowing hand, the same color as its eyes—is resting on Ben’s forehead.

Ben’s squirming, hanging from the roof from both hands, eyes closed, but shaking so violently that he sways back and forth. Occasionally, he gasps in deep, hiccupping breaths, but he keeps muttering, “Wake up, Ben, come on—“ Blood runs down his neck.

She remembers helping Ben out with a project from school. The women’s suffrage movement. Teaching them a lesson. Wilson. The Night of Terror.  A woman was chained up and hung by her wrists the whole, terrible night. She nearly suffocated.

Ben has to get down from there. And there’s also the blood—oh, God—

“Get away from him.” Lisa’s not sure if her voice carries, but she repeats it, this time ~~,~~ in a sharper tone. By her feet is a broken-off pipe, the end pointed, and Lisa tries not to think of stabbing anything until she has to. “Don’t hurt him.” She breathes in, slowly letting it back out. “Who are you? What are you?”

“I was coming for you next. He said I can have you both.”

“Who says?” she demands, even though she’s pretty sure she knows the answer. Its taking its gaze off of Ben, so it’s working. Now, she just has to focus and keep going.

“The new god.” it turns its head back towards her son, and Lisa grips the pipe tighter in her hands. “So generous. Letting me do what I do best, watching his dreams _destroy_ him, I’ll—“

“You will do no such thing.”

A bright light engulfs the whole area, and Lisa has the sense to shut her eyes, hiding them in the crook of her elbow, then screaming at Ben to close his own, too.

“Careless.” The man says, somewhat irritably, seemingly to himself. “I told it to keep them distracted, not kill them.Not yet.”

He now turns to face Lisa, who slowly opens her eyes and resists the scream bubbling up in her throat. 

Blue eyes.

* * *

 

It’s Cas. It’s definitely Cas.

He’s here.

Dean tightens his grip on his weapon. His plan: get Lisa and Ben, then get out, is pretty faulty by itself. Add Cas to the mix, and it’s useless.

Crowley had promised to keep him distracted, but obviously, that either fell through or he lied. Again.

Dean can’t even be angry with himself. His mouth still tastes of sulfur.

And he’s only got himself to blame. 

* * *

 

Ben’s now lying in her arms, and the ropes that bound him are completely broken. But he’s not—he’s not—

The man takes a step towards them. Lisa gets to her feet, cradling her son, and scooping up the pipe with one hand.

“Get the hell away from us.” She raises it threateningly, even though she has a feeling it won’t work.

He only laughs, shaking his head. “I’m going to make you an offer.” Lisa tells herself to not listen, that this is a trick, but with Ben not moving…

“I will heal your son and set you both free. But you need to do something for me.”

A circle.

Lisa keeps her eyes on him, but slowly lowers herself to the ground again, as if she’s weakening.

“I need new followers. The ones I had were disloyal and unworthy. I saved something of theirs. Something that can fully restore your son back to perfect health.”

A triangle on the top.

Lisa’s fingers tighten around the end of the pipe, and she bites her lip.

“All you have to do is say yes.”

Two things that look like n’s on the either side.

_Come on, concentrate._

“Just one word.”

Ribbon, three, z, sideways magnifying glass.

_Lis, come on. What’s the last thing?_

In the middle was—

“If not, he’ll die.”

Lisa finishes the sigil with a decisive swipe of her fingers and slams her palm right on the middle, and watches the god shudder. 

* * *

 

 _That won’t do a thing,_ Lucifer sings.

Lisa’s rooted to the ground in horror, now folding Ben in her arms. Cas is advancing, his face thunderous.

Dean shoots him directly in the back.

His expression is hardened and cold, and Sam remembers: _this is Michael’s vessel._

He also fires.

Lisa cries out in shock, but Sam keeps going, Bobby by his side, shooting round after round.

“Run!” Bobby yells at her; Lisa gets to her feet and takes a few wobbly steps backward before fleeing.

“Follow her, Dean!” Sam shouts. He can’t let Dean do this. He can’t make his brother do this, hurt the one he—

Lisa suddenly goes flying across the room, as if hit by an invisible baseball bat, and her head strikes the ground with a distinct _crack._ Ben’s limp body also crashes, a short gasp escaping his lips, stained with blood. Dean screams their names in broken horror, legs pumping to reach them, but is also thrown by another invisible force. Cas stands in the middle of the room, immobile, with his eyes fixed on Dean.

 _Think, Sammy, think._ Lucifer croons.

Sam does.

“Bobby!” He calls. “The blood!”

Bobby gets the message, and with a brief fumble at his belt, tosses the vial directly at Sam, who catches it in midair with a satisfying, soft slap against his palm. Claire had wanted to come herself, but Sam and Bobby talked her out of it—it was far too dangerous for a girl barely old enough to get a driver’s license. She hadn’t liked it all, especially when Bobby threatened to call her mother right then and there, but Claire had still given them the tools they needed.

 _Kick his ass,_ she’d said with a snarl.

Dean gasps, just then, as Cas’ hand descends on his forehead and presses down, hard. “You’ve defied me for the last time,” he snarls, as Dean screams, eyes wild with pain, and Sam knows this is beyond the physical. He recognizes this from the early months, the wordless wails in the middle of the night, the occasional gasp of _don’t, don’t, I won’t say yes, I won’t._

Fury boils up in Sam. He remembers waking up in the middle of night, catching just a glimpse Cas’ fingers resting on Dean’s forehead, his brother sleepily murmuring in contentment, features more relaxed than Sam had ever seen. Cas had turned to him then, sensing his presence, and before Sam could say anything, the angel had disappeared.

Cas turns around, just as Sam finishes the last stroke, his fingertips wet with blood.

Sam opens his mouth to begin, but suddenly, Bobby collapses, then there’s a _snap_ and _heat_ and _screaming._ Lucifer, at last, free, howls in utter triumph, and Sam’s brought back to endless flames licking his face, searing through down to his bones, pain like he never felt skinning him— _his soul_ —with Michael’s righteous roars and Lucifer’s unrestrained gleeand Adam’s cries of protest, but his brother had been too weak, too worn down from an archangel’s possession, too helpless, until, until—

“ _Stop! Sam!_ ” _Bobby, come on, wake up, finish the spell._ “I surrender!” _Dean, no! Don’t, not for me—_  “You son of a bitch, I surrender, let them go, let them all go, it’s me you want—“

Sam’s trying to shout _Dean, no, don’t_ , just as the King of Hell appears right in the middle of the fray with a snap of his fingers.

“Hello, boys,” he sneers, and Sam blacks out.


	8. Chapter 8

“I hate you,” Sam snarls.

“Don’t be like that,” Crowley says, affronted. He’s still peeved, having fallen for the old Devil’s Trap on the ceiling trick. Sam would call it _pouting._ “I went through the trouble of teleporting you back to this miserable little dump and healed you lot in a twinkling."

“You sent my brother to his death!” Sam shouts, half-tempted to just run the demon through with a blade and be done with it. If it weren’t for his with-holding the spell details and the fact that he saved Lisa and Ben, Sam and Bobby would have sent him back to Hell.

Bobby was picking up Claire and Amelia for their protection—and for Claire’s blood, though no one seemed eager to mention it to her mother—while Lisa and Ben stumbled around like soldiers after a bomb hit. Ben seemed especially shaken up, but was curious about this new world and ready to take up arms against _the bad guys_ , and which Sam had derailed by leaving him in Bobby’s panic room with some bogus research to keep him busy. Lisa had looked ready to follow him, but her determination to keep an eye on the King of Hell won out.

“Did you send him to Hell?” she now asks, cup of tea in her hand, while rereading the list of spell ingredients Crowley had wrote out for them. Lisa’s job is to help Sam with getting them all together, but her hands shake so badly that she nearly drops one of the jars on his head.

“It’s more like his soul,” Crowley corrects with a wave of his hand.

“You have his soul, then.” Sam realizes. “Can you track him?”

Lisa’s mouth falls open. “His soul?”

“Yes,” Crowley confirms, somewhat impatiently. “I’m a demon, and I sell souls. Is that simple enough for you to understand?”

Lisa actually folds her arms and outright glares at him, as if the King of Hell is nothing more than a spoiled brat—which Sam believes is partially true—snapping, “The concept? Yes. But you—what do you need souls for? It’s not just for kicks, is it?” 

“Souls have power. You should have caught that when Cas ate all of those souls.”

“He _ate_ them—“ Lisa begins to exclaim, but Sam interrupts harshly, “Just tell me if you have my brother’s soul.”

“Relax. Your darling older brother hasn’t started pushing the daisies, but I _can_ sense—“ Suddenly, Crowley’s expression dims in confusion.

“What?” Sam demands.

Crowley pauses, baffled, then slowly shakes his head. “His soul—it’s—it’s changing.”


	9. Chapter 9

Dean finishes tying off the last bag of leaves. It had been Ben’s chore, really, but Dean stepped in and took the reins. Lisa, bemused, told him he didn’t have to, that it was Ben’s responsibility, but Dean simply told her he was happy to do it.

And he was. It was like mowing a lawn, something laborious but soothing in its repetitiveness. For a brief moment, Dean had been reminded of the world that never was—his mother alive, with Sam and Jess engaged—but shook it off. It wasn’t real—it was never going to be real—and the memories were tinged with doubt. Even if Dean had had a home and a girlfriend and a real family, he still would have been messed-up, floating along with a beer bottle and a stained reputation.

He wasn’t made for peace. He never had been.

Dean snaps out of his musings to take a deep breath. It really does smell like autumn, like must and dirt and damp, and there’s a stillness that lay in the air like early-morning fog. The quiet—good quiet, not the fearful, creeping kind he was used to on hunts—permeates through his senses like a good cup of hot tea, relaxing his muscles and calming the steady stuttering of his mind. He’s not truly _happy,_ but it’s the closest he could get.

There’s an electric prickle in the air.

 _No,_ Dean thinks. _Not possible._

“Hello, Dean.” 

* * *

 It’s Cas. The same old Cas, trenchcoat and all, and Dean can only stare.

His first instinct is to pinch himself, or maybe grab the rake and point it at who can only be some sort of imposter. They had ended on a heavy note, an all-too brief goodbye that Dean hadn’t thought about until the nightmares and the midnight drinking started.

Dean was used to a gentle tap on his forehead, a slight shiver in his mind that seamlessly transitioned him from Hell to a fishing dock or someplace peaceful. He’d gotten attached to it—a mistake—and poor Lisa had to endure raw screams and flailing limbs that once actually kicked her off the bed and onto the floor.

 _You get therapy or pills or something,_ Lisa had argued when Dean skipped out on his doctor’s appointment that day, and Dean briefly thought, _No, I have Cas_ , before realizing that he didn’t.

“Dean, it’s me.”

It’s him. It really _is_ him.

He can only ask, “Where _were_ you?”

“Heaven.”

When Dean speaks, he’s surprised to find his tone acidic and bitter, a combination of battery fluid and coffee grounds. “ _Heaven?_ Having fun up there as the new boss? Did you get the stick up your ass refitted?”

 _“Dean,”_ Cas says, wounded and startled, and Dean’s suddenly furious. He has no _right_ to sound that way, as though _Dean’s_ the one at fault, because _Cas_ died, then came back and got to live the life he wanted, while Dean was stuck here, going through the motions, raking friggin’ leaves, and Sam— _Sam—_

“You were _gone._ I haven’t seen you in _months._ What the hell, _Castiel_? You can’t even pop in for a little check-in? What, has Heaven gotten so boring now that you’ve decided to take a brief vacation down here to slum it with the pathetic little humans?”

“This is not—“ Cas pauses, frustration evident in his tone. “This is not how I pictured this conversation.”

“What, you thought I’d drop my things and invite you in for supper?” Dean throws back his head and chuckles, hard and joyless. “Forget it. Why,of all times, are you now deciding to show up?”

The open emotions on Cas’ face disappear, with a minimal trace of despair in his eyes, like a swipe of a wet towel against a chalkboard. “It is not important,” he finally says.

“Bull,” Dean shoots back, then pivots, heading towards the house. “You don’t want to share with the mud monkey. I got it.” He throws his head over his shoulder to give the angel an ironic smile, stretched thin like used chewing gum. “Nice to see, Cas; we should really do this again sometime.”

“I was eager to see you.” Cas says so softly that Dean has to turn backwards to face him again. “I missed you.”

Something in Dean breaks, a short snap to his chest, and he sighs. “I missed you too.”

* * *

 Dean ends up inviting him into the kitchen and offering him some leftovers. While washing up at the sink, he notices Cas looking curiously around the room. Lisa’s kitchen is cozy and somewhat overcrowded, but has an unmistakable sense of _home_ in it. Cas looks like a stranger in here, and Dean sympathizes. Sometimes, he feels the same way.

They try to exchange small talk, which just ends up degenerating into long, awkward pauses. There’s not much to say after _“teaching angels free will is like teaching poetry to fish”_ and “ _I celebrated when I realized I went a day without wanting to die.”_

The name _Raphael_ finally comes up when Dean sets down a cup of tea and a sloppy sandwich in front of Cas, before taking the seat across from him.

“Raphael? That jackass archangel? The one who killed you?” _I thought that bastard would be roasting in that holy fire._

“Raphael wants to restart the Apocalypse. He’s gathered most of Heaven into his ranks, and I’ve been amassing forces on the fringes—but they are so little. Too little. For now, we’re keeping him on the defense from freeing Lucifer and Michael.”

 _Sam._ It seems treacherous, but Dean almost wishes for it, for Sam to slip out of the bars and escape.

To distract himself, Dean asks, “Isn’t there some big weapon you can use? I thought you came back, to quote, _better than ever._ ”

“Not as powerful as Raphael and much of Heaven.” Cas explains. “Some of Heaven’s weapons may turn the tide, but Virgil is on Raphael’s side. He will never give me what I need, and Raphael can easily defeat me if I try.”

Dean starts tracing random patterns on the table with his index finger. “Do you know someone who can steal them?” He briefly thinks of Bela Talbot and mentally shakes his head. She’s in Hell, a demon besides, and the last thing she’d do is offer to help them.

“Gabriel,” Cas immediately answers, but both of them are aware that the archangel is dead. “I used to have a friend who was very skilled in the art of stealth, but he died. A long time ago.”

“You mentioned _your_ forces,” Dean remembers. “How many are standing with you? A lot?”

“We are a minority,” Cas admits. “But I trust everyone on my side implicitly.”

“Then you have some chunk of power on your side. And I’m sure I can do something to help. I can call Bobby, the hunter network, maybe even—“

“This is why I didn’t want to involve you.”

Dean actually starts at his blunt tone and gives an inaudible “Oh.”

Cas quickly shakes his head. “No, Dean, that’s not what I meant. I only meant…you’re happy in this life, Dean. And after everything, you deserve peace.” He begins to rise from his seat, food and drink untouched. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“Don’t be stupid, Cas. Who am I to turn my back on someone who needs me? Let’s not waste time arguing. We’ve got twenty-four hours, and counting.”

“If I fail,” Cas says cautiously, as if he’s expecting Dean to run straight for the door. “Raphael will destroy you, destroy the ones you love—Bobby, Lisa, Ben—“

“I’m not losing anyone else. Not after—“ Dean clears his throat, then takes a long sip from Cas’ cup of tea. “Not after Sam.”

“It is highly possible he might win.”

“All right, so we won’t let him win,” Dean declares, setting the mug down. “Let’s stop an Apocalypse.” 

* * *

 Cas’ lieutenant looks at him the same way he often regards monster slime. She’s a pretty blonde, hair tucked behind her ears and clad in the same black and white suits the other angels seem to be wearing. The rest of Cas’ distressingly small army can easily fit into Bobby’s living room and the adjoining kitchen.

“You’re Dean Winchester,” she says, somewhat blankly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Dean first glances at Cas, then reaches out for a handshake, but she just stares at him until he lowers it, somewhat awkwardly.

“So,” he says. “You’re…?”

“Rachel,” she replies. “Castiel’s lieutenant. I am most dedicated to his cause, for I believe in Castiel.” Rachel glances up at Cas, who nods back with a friendly smile. She looks pleased, and Dean’s highly tempted to roll his eyes.

“Castiel is more suited to the role than Raphael.” Another angel says. Dean nearly jumps. This one is plain-faced with close-cut brown hair, and he’s flipping through one of the books on the table with a mild air about him. “Castiel has promised us free will and a new age, while Raphael only offers an endless cycle of destruction. He’s cruel, tyrannous, and unsuited to rule Heaven.”

“Inias is correct. Raphael is ruthless, arrogant, and a force to be reckoned with.” A woman with bobbing brown curls adds. Dean remembers Cas’ mention of her— _Hester_ —just as she continues, “But we are not afraid. We will stand up to this dictator.”

“He puts the _dick_ in dictator, am I right?” Dean tries to joke, but everyone—Cas included—simply stares at him. Cas’ familiar _dear Father in Heaven, help me_ face is on. It’s clear his humor goes over all angels’ heads, not just Cas’.

Rachel frowns. “This is no laughing matter,” she says sternly. “We only have until tomorrow to amass our forces against Raphael and his army. If we fail, we all die.”

“Right,” Dean replies, something heavy shifting in his stomach. “Yes.” He clears his throat. “So, what’s the plan?”

“The plan,” Bobby says, entering the room and handing Dean a notepad. Dean tries to meet his eyes, but Bobby won’t look at him. “is this: Dean, you’re gonna help me call every hunter in this network and get them to either haul their asses here or contribute to some research.”

“And we will split into small teams,” Cas continues. “Finding the weapons, gathering some uncertains on our side, finding…a few things.”

“What things?” Dean asks, but Cas acts as if he didn’t hear.

“That’s none of your concern,” Hester says, and the superior dismissal in her tone makes a hot swell of anger rise up in his throat.

“I have the right to know,” he snaps back.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do. I—“

“Dean, Hester, enough,” Cas says sternly. “We don’t have much time.” He turns to Bobby, who nods stiffly, and a wordless exchange passes between them. With a flutter of wings, the angels are gone, and Bobby hands him his phone.

“Get to work,” he orders.

* * *

 It turns out none of the hunters want to help because a) they all believe the Apocalypse is Dean’s fault, b) they have no idea who Castiel is, and c) they don’t believe in angels, and if they do, are extremely skeptical about fighting them. Bobby calls in a few favors from most of them, threatens one, and raises a meager amount of information out of the willing. Dean isn’t so lucky. One hunter gets him so flustered that he just slams down the phone, ending the call. 

“Well,” Bobby says. “I’m assuming that one didn’t go well.”

“Just leave it alone, Bobby.”

“Boy, I’ve been giving you space for _months_.” The hunter counters, hanging up his call and looking him square in the eyes. “Dean, this was hard on me, too.”

“You don’t understand—“ Dean begins, but Bobby fixes him with a withering look, and Dean shuts up, silenced by the tears swimming in Bobby’s eyes.

“Sam was like a _son_ to me, just as you are. It was a piss-poor thing to happen to him. I never understood why Sam was _Lucifer’s_ vessel. He was a good kid—a good _man—_ and we’re—we’re both grieved, Dean.”

“Griev _ing_ ,” Dean says bitterly. “I’m still grieving.”

“Sam is happy. Maybe he has his reasons for not visiting, but he has baggage to work out, just like you--“

“How the _hell_ do you know— _visiting?_ ”

Bobby gives him the old _oh, you utter IDJIT_ look. “Because he called him, dumbass,” he says. “Didn’t Cas tell you?” 

* * *

“You raised _Sam_? Why am I just now hearing about this?”

“Dean—“

“No! You _knew_ how torn up I was about him, and you—you didn’t have the _decency_ to—“

“Dean—“

“That’s one of your missions. To find _Sam_.”

_“Dean—“_

“No. I’m coming. No matter what you say, I _need_ to see my brother again. Don’t try to stop me.” 

* * *

 “What are _you_ doing here?” For the angel of beauty, Hael’s expression when she sees him is downright ugly.

“Dean Winchester is a stubborn man” is all Cas says.

“You’re letting _him_ push you around?” Hael demands. _“A human?”_

“Enough of this _humans are second-class citizens_ crap,” Dean begins to snarl, but suddenly, there’s a sudden cry of pain, a woman’s, and all of them stop arguing and run toward the sound.

“Muriel!” Hael yells, and there’s another scream rippling the air so strongly that Dean falls to the ground, palms gathering blood. Cas claps his hands over his ears until it all dies down, then heals him with a touch. Brushing off the red stains on his jeans, Dean turns his attention to the girl, in a park ranger’s uniform, lying on the ground. Standing above her is—

“Sam,” Dean breathes, then yells, “Sam, no! They’re on Cas’ side!”

“Dean?” his brother gasps, then grunts harshly when he lands face-first on the ground.

“ _Sam!”_ Dean begins to rush over to him, but Hael blocks his path and freezes him in place.

“Let me go, you—“

“Hael—“

“He nearly killed Muriel!” Hael looks almost on the verge of spitting. “I don’t know how, Castiel, but he’s _hurt_ her.”

“There was pain—and I—I dropped my blade,” Muriel says weakly, voice both faint and puzzled. “I don’t know how—I—“ She looks up at Sam, almost as if in a daze, trying to pull herself up, but her hands are shaky.

“Hael,” Cas interrupts, not unkindly. “Why don’t you heal her?”

The angel gives Sam a withering look, but does as she’s told, cradling Muriel’s face in her palm with a slight tremor. Sam then turns to them, confusion written all over his face. “What’s going on?”

Dean answers: “Long story short: an angelic civil war, and we have less than twenty-four hours.”

Sam grins, and something _wrong_ twinges in Dean’s conscious, but he pushes it down as his little brother says, “Let’s kill some angels.”

* * *

 

 Dean’s over the moon to have his brother back, and not even the news of the delayed weapons-stealing mission can bring him down. A few angels have joined their ranks—like a doubtful, yet curious angel named Hannah and an earnest, surprisingly friendly one called Samandriel—but Cas still worries.

“We could call Crowley,” Sam jokes, and Cas shoots him a withering look.

“Crowley is _scum_. His deals only benefit himself, and I will not soil this mission with _demonic_ —“

“Okay, that’s a no, then,” Dean cuts in before Cas can get into a full-blown rant. “Are we out of ideas if the mission blows, Cas?”

“No,” Cas says, but Dean knows him. It doesn’t look good. They only have around five hours left, give or take.

“Well, we’ll get lucky. Win the day, celebrate, have a normal life—“

“A _normal_ life,” Sam drawls, resting his cheek on his hand. “God, what’s that like?”

“A house,” Dean says, the image starting to come to him with surprising clarity. “Maybe a cabin in a small town. Like Mom’s old hideout, but with like, people. Good people. Somewhere with Internet—“

“Definitely. Maybe I can go back to—well, not Stanford, but someplace else. But I wish I didn’t have to fill out all those applications and essays and shit—maybe I can recycle my paper...”

“College. Of course.”

“I’d visit you every week,” Sam reassures him, sensing his unease. “I’ll bring you pie—“

“Oh, definitely. And I’ll make some hamburgers—“

“A dog,” Cas interrupts. They both look at him with startled amusement, but Cas pushes on: “a vegetable patch. Maybe a garden, too. Some place with a lot of open land.”

Dean smiles. “You’re getting it, Cas. That sounds great.”

“Are you actually going to stay in that house?” Sam blurts out, and Dean feels his heart drop down, _down, **down**_ when Cas doesn’t respond. His brother immediately looks apologetic, but doesn’t say a word.

He’s been quiet lately, and even though Dean likes to tease Sam for burying his nose in a book over going with him to a bar, Sam _isn’t_ quiet. From a toddler who asked “why?” at every opportune moment to a gangly adolescent who babbled about all the things he learned about in school to where he was now, debating over even minor things with a furious “get this,” Sam had always been talkative.

Maybe Hell had changed Sam. Maybe this was his way of coping.

God knows Hell changed Dean. Every time he put a knife in his hand, he had to remind himself that he was _saving_ people this time.

Sam had wentback to hunting without calling Dean. He feels like he deserves it—if Sam doesn’t want to ever see him again, not after everything Dean’s put him through. Dean decided he would do his best to make Sam happy. ~~T~~ he fact that Sam didn’t get to start a new life—a normal one, with college or a job and an apartment and a girl—made the guilt drag him down deeper. He had messed his brother up so badly that Sam could only find normalcy in… _hunting._ Solo.

His thoughts are interrupted by a bright flash of light. Everyone leaps up, weapons pointed at the angels and the enormous pile of weapons on the floor.

There’s an angel Dean doesn’t recognize—skinny and pale, with a look of gleeful mischief.

“Surprise,” the angel says, cheekily waving his fingers. “Guess who’s back?”

* * *

_"Balthazar?”_

“Yup. Hello, Cassy.” He tilts his head in Sam and Dean’s direction and smirks. “Mud monkeys.”

“Seriously?” Sam mutters, but Cas looks furious—at either being called _Cassy_ or the so-called dead friend showing up at the last minute. Dean’s betting on the latter. He knows how it feels.

“We need to talk in private,” Balthazar says, voice low, glancing at the angels, who are now clustered in a circle around the weapons. Cas nods, and tells Dean and Sam to help the catalogue the weapons. Sam eagerly gravitates towards what looks like a giant crystalized salt, and Dean watches the two angels go downstairs.

“I gotta use the bathroom,” he says, and when no one replies, he slips out of the room. 

* * *

“I suspect a traitor in your ranks…was too easy…felt like a trap.”

“What do they have to gain?”

“Our numbers, or at least part of them. Our abilities. Many things.”

“Like the fact you’re alive—“

“Are we really going to debate about this? Why not talk about something else: like how your army’s murmuring about a certain human bossing you around? I always took you for the dominant, Cassy.”

“I can’t believe I missed you. And secondly, you don’t mean—“

“The Righteous Man? Not the sloppy-haired giant—the shorter, pretty one.”

“Stop objectifying Dean in that matter. That’s disgusting.” Dean briefly suppresses a shudder because one, British accents sound pretentious, and two, _ugh._ He’s been called _pretty_ way too many times, and hearing it from that slimy _angel_ made it feel eleven different kinds of wrong.

“You’re dodging.”

“Fine. I don’t want him around. Happy?”

That _hurts._ It really does, and Dean’s surprised by the loud gasp that escapes his mouth, clamping his palm immediately over his lips, chest strangely tight.

Inside, Balthazar laughs. “You do realize your pet is listening to everything we’re saying?”

Dean jerks his ear from the wall as Cas exclaims _what_ , then _Dean, wait—_ but Dean is already gone.

* * *

Cas finds him in Bobby’s panic room, hunched over one of the beds.

“Get out,” Dean mutters, tossing a paper he’d been reading over and over again without understanding a single word.

“I have so many things to regret…” the angel begins to say, but Dean holds up his hand without looking at him.

“Including dissing me in front of your frat buddy,” Dean says blankly. “I get it.”

“You don’t understand—“

“Oh, I do. I really do.”

They stand there in a long, awkward silence before Cas speaks again, voice hesitant. “This room is not a pleasant memory for me.”

“Yeah, that…wasn’t exactly a good time.” Dean replies dryly, but he feels a sense of weird nostalgia. There had been the Apocalypse, that overwhelming pressure of little time and endless worry, but they were a _team,_ together and united. That was something Dean never really felt—not with Dad and certainly not with the array of hunting partners when Sam was gone.

As if Cas could read his thoughts, he suddenly says, “I let Sam out.”

Dean frowns pensively. What? “I don’t understand. You mean…Hell?”

“No, here. In this room. A long time ago.”

It slowly registers. _The demon blood. Lilith._

_The Apocalypse._

“That was you?”

Dean closes his eyes.

“You’re angry.”

“You were a dick back then. Still are.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Dean’s suddenly tired of being angry—at Cas, at Bobby, at himself, at the whole situation—and simply heaves a sigh. And was there really a point in being angry, especially when the clock was ticking down to a second Doomsday? It seemed like such a selfish thing to hold onto grudges, what had already happened, in the grand scheme of things.

“We all have our inner demons.” Dean can’t resist a snort at his own choice of words. “Besides, we’ve all been to Hell. Literally.” He shrugs. “We’re only human.” Dean stands up and pats his hand against the iron door. “This room isn’t a good place for me, either. What happened with Sam, then Anna, then Sam again, then you—“

“The alley.” Cas begins, then stops, as if trying to compose himself. “What I did was wrong. I was full of fear and anger, but it was no excuse for what I did. Hurting you like that, crushing your face, damaging your back—even if I was falling, I still had more strength than a mortal man. That wasn’t fair—that wasn’t good of me, a so-called friend.”

“You healed me afterwards,” Dean points out.

“That has no bearing. I should have thought of other methods. If I had talked to you, even if I had shouted at you, as humans usually do—I didn’t have to hurt you.” Cas takes a deep breath. “You know I wouldn’t have done it.”

“Done what?”

“Thrown you back to Hell. Do you remember that?”

Of course he does—the too-silent kitchen, Cas’ breath on his face, Dean’s hands clutching at the counter with trembling fingers, the knee-knocking terror of _red_ and _blades_ and _screams._ “Yeah.”

“I shouldn’t have terrified you like that. I did not know as much about humans as I do now, and I was trying to make you see the whole picture, but no. It was despicable of me. Evil. How could I have said that, when I saw you as I raised you from Perdition?”

An ugly laugh escapes Dean. “You would have been justified.”

“You don’t understand. Your soul—your soul was a beacon in all that darkness, all that fire, all that hate. It glowed with love, it shone, it guided me to you, and I—“ Cas pauses. “I should have known.”

“Known what?”

“That you would always guide me.” Cas is close, too close now, and Dean tries not to breathe when Cas’ hands clasp his shoulders. “I rebelled for you. I gave everything for you.”

“I know,” Dean replies lowly, still mindful of the heavy presence less than a hair away. “You shouldn’t have. I’ve had my own fair share of mistakes. I started the Apocalypse, for God’s sake.”

“And Sam and I finished it. This shouldn’t be a tally. Nevertheless, I can’t risk it.”

“Risk what?”

“Losing you.”

Dean’s breath is caught in his throat. He remembers _go, I’ll hold them off, I’ll hold them all off._ He remembers a flash of white light, the walls shaking, his fingers outstretched as he’s pulled from Chuck’s rattling house. He remembers feeling a keen loss, thinking about praying. He remembers the utter surprise when Cas came back, the unspeakable joy.

He remembers the brothel, thinking _this is the only thing you’re good at, Dean, sex, and you might as well give that poor bastard something nice if he goes._ He remembers seeing Cas of 2014, so far fallen, so broken because of him. _This is why you can’t have nice things. You have to stop this._ He remembers standing in the empty field of Stull, bloody chunks still sitting on his jacket. _I failed. I failed him._ He remembers Cas leaving him soon afterwards without much of comfort: _You got what you asked for, Dean. Just more of the same._  

He remembers being up at night, waiting for the flutter of wings that never came.

“I know how you feel.”

Dean’s heart beats like a rabbit’s as Cas’ voice firmly states, “I can’t ask you to risk your life for my mistakes.”

“What, like you did for me? I will fight, Cas,” Dean breathes. “I will fight for you.”

Cas makes a noise, almost like a sob, and Dean closes the distance.

* * *

They don’t have much time to kiss like Dean wants to—he wants to take it slow, knowing that Cas hasn’t really done much of anything with anyone, but time is running out. They run through it quickly enough to put teenagers to shame, but it’s strangely _more_. Cas knows exactly how to touch him—“I’ve remade your body, Dean, and I remember every stitch of it”—and it’s all Dean can do to learn Cas’ body in return. He tastes like lightning storms and exploding stars, a brief flash illuminating the night sky. Like summer rain and rocking waves that crash upon the shore, consuming all in their wake if only for a moment, all power but utmost tenderness at the core. Cas treats him all fragile and strong in one. Dean is lost in the eye of the storm, and he can almost feel his left arm burning.

“The handprint,” Dean pants between kisses. “What happened to it?”

“I thought—“ Cas covers his mouth with his, and Dean has to remind himself to breathe, fisting his hands in the back of the tan coat. “I thought it would be best to give you a clean slate. I thought—“ He hisses briefly when Dean finds a sweet spot behind his left ear, tugging slightly at his close-cropped hair. “I thought you would be reminded of what happened— _oh_ —if it remained on your body.”

“But what was it?” Dean asks, pushing his jacket from his shoulders. He has to pull away from Cas to do so, and Cas gives him such an irritated look that he nearly laughs. “The handprint—it was when you raised me from Hell, right?”

“Yes,” Cas replies, taking both of his hands and laying a kiss on each palm. “I didn’t meant to burn you, but I had to mark you as claimed, claimed for Heaven, to give you some protection in Hell—“

“Like a brand?” Dean can’t hide the astonishment in his voice.

“You’re not cattle, Dean,” Cas says, drawing him closer by his hands. “You’re—“

And then there’s a knock on the door.

“What are you idjits doing in there?” Bobby yells. “We’re on the final homestretch here!”

“Uh—“ Dean says, in the process of trying to smooth out his shirt.

“Talking over strategy.” Cas calls back, as easily as anything, and they both look at each other, trying to resist laughing.

When they open the door, Bobby gives them a _really?_ look, but says nothing. Samandriel, the boyish angel, is standing behind him, looking almost pleased.

Sam just rolls his eyes. “Strategy,” he echoes with a smirk. “Boring, huh?”

“We were just looking at heavenly maps,” Dean replies, somewhat lamely. “You know. Going over battlefield tactics.”

“Right,” his brother says, clearly not believing them. His stare’s making Dean slightly uncomfortable. “It’s about time, though, Dean. Your repressed homosexuality was getting on my nerves. I mean, you’re kind of an idiot. You too, Cas.”

Bobby blows out the air in his cheeks, while Samandriel looks at Sam, something moving uncertainly in his eyes. Dean wonders what the angel sees that he can’t, and Samandriel simply turns his eyes towards Dean.

“It’s time,” he says, almost sorrowfully.

* * *

The plan is this: Dean gets left behind, and the angels fight in Heaven, where they’re the strongest.

“No,” Dean objects, but Cas is vehement.

“You can’t fight angels in Heaven, nor even on the mortal plane, and Raphael said he’d kill anyone who stood by me. He might not know—“

“You can’t—you _can’t_ leave—you can’t _die,_ not again—“

“You’ll be safe. The only comfort I’ll have when I’m up there is if you’re safe.”

“I don’t have that same _comfort_ —please—“

“Dean,” Cas says. “I’m sorry.”

He pulls Dean in, locking cage-like arms around his body as Dean fights him, curses him, kisses him until his lips are tender and swollen. By the time Cas’ fingers brush against his forehead, he’s mostly given all that he can say.

The last thing Dean hears is _if I had to thank God for anything, I’d thank Him for bringing me to you._

Dean’s knees hit the tile of Lisa’s kitchen, and he knows Cas is gone.

“You son of a bitch,” Dean breathes. “I love you, too.”

* * *

Lisa’s going to chew him out for this. A quick text— _gotta go; need to help a friend; love, Dean—_ wasn’t the best way to leave, and Dean’s guessing the barbeque they had planned has been cancelled. The house is silent—maybe they went out to the movies or something—but something doesn’t feel right.

“Lisa? Ben?” He calls out, drawing out a gun from his belt as he slowly stalks up the stairs. Thank God he still had his weapons on him. “It’s Dean. Are you here?”

Something wet hits his cheek.

Dean looks up, and Ben is hanging from the light fixture. His eyes are wide with surprise and fear, and his body is limp and dripping blood from the wound in his chest.

“Ben.” Dean can’t breathe. “Ben. No.”

“Dean,” a weak voice whispers, right beneath his feet.

Lisa’s collapsed on the floor, blood trickling from her mouth, palms pinned to the floor. Something in Dean’s stomach lurches. He recognizes those knives—

“Dean—“ Lisa chokes. “I think—“

And she goes silent.

 _“Lisa.”_ Dean drops to his knees. God, _Lisa._ Maybe he didn’t love Lisa like a wife, but he loved her as a friend, as a safe haven, as a confidant. He loved Lisa for Ben, for the brief peace and sense of home, for the busy breakfast rushes and unhurried barbeque dinners, for arms wrapped around him during those nights.  Lisa had pulled him from a different sort of hell, and now she was gone.

A footstep, too deliberate, lands right in front of his face.

Sam smiles thinly. “I told you I would pay you a visit.” 

* * *

 “Sammy—“ Dean can’t process this. “Why—“

“When Cas raised me, he forgot a little something. My soul.” He sneers, lifting the gun right out of Dean’s startled hands. “He did a better job with you, but honestly, Dean—have you really left Hell?”

“Your soul…” How did this happen? How could Cas have made such a crucial mistake? “Sam, no. We can get it back—“

“I don’t want it back, Dean. It seems killing someone of my own blood will do the trick.” Sam lowers the gun, aiming it right between his eyes. “I’ll make it quick, Dean. After all, I need to see an archangel about a job.”

“You’re the traitor.” Dean can’t believe this. “Sam—“

“God, shut up, Dean.” Sam screws up his face. “You know why you didn’t see this coming? It’s because you put people on a freaking pedestal. It's always black or white with you: human or monster, love or hate. You cut people out of your life when they don't fit into boxes, and if you can't, you try to mold them to fit.” He pauses, savoring every word like a small, sugary treat. "Look at Dad. You can't decide, can you? One minute he's won Father of the Year, and the next, he's practically Lucifer."

"Dad?” Where did that come from? “Dad’s different.”

Sam only laughs. “Dean, I’d be surprised if you could go through a day without thinking of what Dad told you. _Watch out for Sammy. Do what you’re told, Dean. You failed me._ If he asked you to jump, you wouldn’t even ask _how high._ That’s how messed-up you are.”

Dean’s fingers close around the knife in Lisa’s right hand.

His brother steps on his hand. “Uh-uh, Dean, I can’t have you fighting me.” He pries it from the body, appraising coolly. “Change of plans. Maybe I’ll slice you up, Dean-o. Bring back memories.” He runs the blade down Dean’s face, down his chest, parting his shirt like water, digging the point into his chest.

“Don’t do this, Sammy. Don’t.”

Sam digs the knife in further, twisting, as Dean groans wordlessly in pain. “Begging already? No wonder you broke. You’re weak, pathetic, and I’m going to enjoy proving that—“

Sam’s face twitches, and he falls to the ground with an absurdly-loud thump.

When Dean rushes over to check his pulse, it’s still.

Cas, above him, looks at him with sorrowful eyes. “I’m so sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry.”

That’s when Raphael appears.

* * *

“Castiel, I thought so. Samuel told me you were awfully close to The Righteous Man.”

_That’s how he was able to hurt Muriel. That’s how the angels got the weapons. That’s how—_

“But tell him how you failed, Castiel, in such a short time.”

“What?” Dean doesn’t understand.

“Dead.” Cas says. “They’re all dead. Sam _told_ Raphael the numbers, the locations, the plans—“

“I warned you, Castiel,” Raphael interrupts. “I warned you, and you will bow.”

“No.” Cas says. “I won’t.”

Dean gasps, and he’s suddenly choking on his own blood, eyes rolling in the back of his skull. He can _see_ Alastair, the blade, Bela’s weeping face, lights dimming, blood on his hands. _Hell._ Every single thing he’s done, he’s made to relive it, with every knife and every taunt, in a span of three seconds.

Cas shouts, “I surrender! Just don’t do any more harm. You stop, and I’ll kneel. We’ll all kneel.”

Dean wordlessly shakes his head at him— _he’ll fight, he’ll always fight—_ but Cas ignores him. Although his arms are lowered in surrender, his eyes glint with hidden defiance. Dean knows that even if Cas bows, he’ll be taking Raphael down with him. 

“Very well, Castiel.” Raphael looks pleased. “I’m glad you made your decision.” 

Raphael snaps his fingers, and Dean, suddenly outside of his body, watches himself explode.

Two seconds later, Cas is also gone.  

* * *

 _Now do you see?_ A voice ringing in his head, like an echo of a tower bell, asks. _Do you see me as I see you?_

It hurts.

Something new is in his chest, like a second heartbeat, pulsing, but it _hurts._ It bobs like a candle, but burns like the sun. His back aches, as if two swift cuts were sliced into his spine, and they seem to pulse—they seem to stretch and move—like, like—

_Wings._


	10. Chapter 10

Six days of creation, six days of frustration, six days of failure.

Ah, but He realized this—no perfect world was created in six days.

The Father who failed before Him created a ruined world, a world of endless corruption and pain and suffering with useless scraps of joy that had to be hoarded too close to the heart. The Father who failed before Him had made the angels bow down to His most glorious gift, and then dragged these helpless creatures through the very mud they had risen from. The Father who failed before Him did not cherish the humans He claimed to love.

Not like Him.

He cared for these broken souls, these lost lambs, these tormented children. He freed them from the chains of their oppressors; He gave them food and shelter when there was none; He purged the world of evil and woe and anguish.

And still all were unsatisfied, ungrateful, unconvinced.

The Righteous Man’s disappointment was heavy, a weight around what He can call His heart: the heart that He made to beat in time to his, the heart that sensed the light in the darkness and was lost, the heart that craved for something that will tame the violent, writhing hollowness inside.

The Righteous Man remade Him, rebuilt Him, recreated Him. He who taught Him that freedom was the greatest gift of all, worthy of fighting for and surrendering for. He who taught Him in ways the Father who failed Him never did. He who taught Him of love, of beauty, of grace.

The seventh day was made for rest, and He can rest at last. He has won the Righteous Man. The Righteous Man has tested Him, has proven the depths of his love and loyalty, has realized His love for him.

The Righteous Man is by His side at last, and immortal and entwined with His own Grace, they can create a new world, a better world, a perfect world.

The Righteous Man is His beloved, and he is His, as He is the Righteous Man’s beloved, and He is his. 

* * *

The Righteous Man stands on steady legs, golden wings held aloft, peridot and emerald sparking in its depths. Lovingly crafted by the grace of God— _his God_ —they tremble with adoration and love and… _fear?_

No, it cannot be fear. He has nothing to fear, not at all. His worries and aches are laid to rest. This is his Lord and his God and his Love, three in one, and the Righteous Man adores Him.

_You see now. Fear not. I absolve you of all your sins out of Love._

Something inside him recoils at the touch to his left shoulder, and he remembers _painpainpain_ entwined with _pleasepleaseplease_. Heat is all around him with the sounds of gutted flesh and screams of agony. He sees white ribs, glistening with wine-dark blood—almost beautiful to look at—being lifted from his own distended stomach by a slim, almost delicate hand, tipped with claws. _Say yes, Dean-o, you have power here. Just say yes._ He’s torn apart in a million different ways, by his own bones or by the claws and teeth of demons, eager to get take their revenge against the famed John Winchester’s son.

He remembers a woman with chestnut hair squirming on the rack, fire in her eyes. _Thought we’d see each other sooner, Winchester._ Impaled on twisted stakes and stripped bare to the soul, her eyes are defiant yet afraid. _Do it, Winchester. I’d rather have someone I know do this to me. I’ll remember._

Bringing the knife down felt like relief, like mercy, like justice.

 _I’ll only punish the ones who deserve to be here._ Murderers and child abusers fell under his blade with righteous fury. Their screams were sweet to his ears. Finally, no longer powerless, he was able to punish the wicked—

_You can do it once again, Dean, in a different way, in making a better world—_

But he didn’t save people. He felt joy and anticipation every time he brought the knife down, of carving away to make what Alastair called _art._ He could pry open every single dark shell to reveal the shimmering soul within, and carve it into something grotesque that suited the crimes they committed. _Art._

 _Humans are works of art,_ the angel had whispered on the park bench. _Dean._

_Dean. That was his name. Dean Winchester, son of John Winchester and Mary Campbell, brother of Samuel Winchester—_

He sees his brother falling on the ground, felled like a tree, screaming in utter pain and agony. He sees his Lord and his God and his Love standing above his brother, cool and distant and _angry_ , and Dean thinks _no._

_As a bone is stronger after it breaks, so are humans, so is Samuel, so are you. You are stronger than before and can stand beside me. Your loyalty was tested for those you love, and it is ironclad. Therefore, your Love for me is the greatest, is it not?_

_Yes._ Dean replies simply. And isn’t simple? His God loves him, as his own father loved him, and a body isn’t strong if you don’t test it, after all. He grew up well, brave and fierce and like water, letting all the stones fall through him with a single ripple, then nothing ever again.

 _How will you have me?_ Dean asks, and his God commands, _With all that you are._

* * *

His God shows him His glory across his country, teaching him how to cloak himself with his wings. _You are but a fledging, still, but you are my best beloved, and I shall teach you in all things._ Dean preens at the gentle praise and shivers when the tip of one of his God’s wings grazes the back of his head, almost like a caress. His head feels gloriously light, with his chest burning as if he swallowed the sun. With his own two eyes, Dean sees the blind who see, the deaf who hear, the hungry who are fed, the diseased who are cured, the oppressed freed. He sees mortals tremble before likenesses of His God in reverence and worship and… _fear?_

 _No,_ he thinks. _What do they have to fear? All of their burdens are washed away, all of their worries gone. They are blessed._

They leave America behind with a flutter of wings, and his God shows him the world. He sees Mecca and Jerusalem and holy lands spared, with converts flocking to larger-than life statues and altars. He sees blessed streams that the thirsty drink gratefully from, with the deserts as lush as they had been in Eden’s time. The land is rich, full to bursting with life, with love.

_That is My greatest gift, as I gifted to you._

He sees people without tyrants to chain them. He sees thousands of dead risen by a single touch. He sees dictators screaming as white light strikes them in the heart, as easily and quickly as lightning. He sees justice done to the world on a larger scale, and his wings quiver in wonder.

_This is what you can do, beloved. This is what you will share with me. We will create a paradise on earth._

_Paradise—_ the word plunges him into a gilded room with oil paintings and mirrors and burgers and beer—of Zachariah sitting with a sneer, reflected tenfold in a single mirror—of His God— _no, Cas_ —whirling him around, palm roughly jammed against his lips.

He feels unrest and panic swell and break like waves, but he nods, trust implicit in his eyes. _Yes—_

_Beloved. Dean. Are you all right?_

_Yes. Is something the matter?_

His God’s eyes are as distant as the mist on faraway mountains. _There is something I need to attend to._

 _You’re going away?_ Nervousness causes his wings to tremble.

 _I won’t leave you,_ He reassures him. Dean sighs as lips touch his forehead in benediction, gentle but with a distinct potency that reminds him of summer storms. _I will give you a task I entrust only to you when I’m away._

_What is it?_

His God smiles. _You protect the ones you love, correct?_ _Then do the same for me._

* * *

Crowley rubs his hands together in anticipation. _It’s time,_ he thinks.

This is the moment where it will all come together perfectly. The women and children are useless creatures, with no purpose other than bait and scrapings of help, tucked away safely in the house. Bobby is of little consequence to get rid of, though someone he’ll have to take careful steps around. Sam Winchester’s wall won’t stay up forever, but Crowley is no fool. The abnormally tall Winchester may not be his main focus, but he’s someone to keep an eye on. While both Winchesters may be weak in the area of self-esteem, poor lads, Sam is definitely the stronger. Crowley is sure that he’s not the one to immediately throw himself on the proverbial sword—Dean is the one who will run towards it, proven time and time again, and that’s what makes his victory sweet. The cocky Winchester may boast as the quintessential strong, tough, manly man, but inside, there’s a distinct weakness that, if tapped directly, will shatter him from the inside.

Crowley is flush with plans for Dean. There are so many possibilities. He can simply arrange for Sam or Bobby or (better) both to somehow indirectly kill him, which would bring down the mighty wrath of Castiel upon them, killing three birds with one stone—then, with the right prods, the new God could be on _Crowley’s_ side. Or, he could claim Dean’s soul and hold it hostage when he dies, then offer him a deal to either help rule Hell to avoid going back on the racks— _wouldn’t that be a festival of dramatics—_ or perhaps—

“Bobby?” Sam’s annoying voice calls. “I got the fulgurite.”

Crowley silently nods. Showtime.

 _“Te nunc invoco, mortem. Te in mea potestate defixi. Nunc et in aeternum—“_ Bobby reads, and lo and behold—it works.

“You bound me,” Death says, irritably. “Whose idea was this?”

Sam and Bobby point directly to Crowley. “His,” they say in unison.

Death turns his eyes to Crowley, who stares back. The act of death doesn’t frighten him—he’s, in a way, technically dead, but the emptiness in his eyes reminds Crowley that even if his heart no longer beats, he can still be whisked out of existence.

Bobby looks pleased, the little shit, but continues, “We need your help…sir…in taking down…God. Casitel. Whatever.”

Death looks bored. “Why would I do that?”

“Because—well—“

“He’s going to take over the world.” A clear voice cuts through the silence, as sharp as a whiplash, and the blond woman—Amy? Annie?—steps out from behind one of the rusty old cars.

“Amelia!” ( _Ah, that’s it,_ Crowley idly thinks.) Sam exclaims. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be in the house—“

“Claire is missing,” Amelia interrupts him sharply. “ _My daughter._ You’ve taken away my husband, who’s now a _monster_. You’re not going to let _Castiel_ walk, are you? Friend or not—“

“I am not their friend.”

 _Oh, shit_ , Crowley inwardly curses, and makes to Exit Stage Crowley—but can’t.

The new God smiles thinly at him, then turns to Amelia, defiant but wary.

“Where is my daughter?” she demands.

“Dean will be taking care of her about now.”

Amelia surges forward with a fierce look on her face, but Sam—smart boy—blocks her way with his arm.

Booby steps forward, fists clenched at his sides. “What did you do to him?”

“I saved him.” Castiel replies calmly. “I saved him from the deal he made with this vermin over here.”

“Hey!” Crowley protests, but gasps in pain as hot iron tightens around his neck.

“Dean made another demon deal?” Bobby mutters under his breath. “Typical.”

 _He has a point there,_ Crowley silently agrees.

“His soul is mine now,” Castiel says. His eyes can be described almost as _dreamy_ , if it weren’t for the trace of possessiveness around the edges, a clear boundary that put up a wall between Dean and Company, with Dean on one side—Castiel’s.

 _Look what I did,_ Crowley inwardly sneers. _Look how far this angel has fallen._

“I don’t care,” Amelia snaps, startling them all. “What did you do with my daughter?”

The woman loses it, pulling an angel blade the boys must have left around out of her jacket. _Idiot,_ Crowley thinks. _You won’t even scratch him._

 _“Kill him!”_ Amelia screams, pointing at Death as if he’s nothing more than a shoe shiner. “Kill him, now, or I’ll—“

“What, kill me?” Death rolls his eyes. “Please. What makes your daughter so special that— _ah._ I see.”

“What?” Sam asks.

“His vessel. I’m guessing your daughter has some sort of foothold over this false god here.” The dismissal in the Horseman’s tone is clear. “This ought to be interesting.” He crosses his arms. “Now, we wait.” 

* * *

Claire always grew up with the notion that she was special. Her father—before he got possessed by an angel and all that crap—used to say that every one of God’s children was blessed, that each and every one was important. Of course, her father also stressed humility—so Claire didn’t get _too_ full of herself—but the thought counted.

If this is special, then Claire thinks it an overrated concept.

She had been whirled away from the bunker with a flutter of wings, and Claire cursed herself for not grabbing the angel blade from the table fast enough. Whatever dropped her hadn’t been too careful, and her head was still spinning. All she can get a glimpse of is white and gold sand, a sky of the purest blue, and sweltering heat that makes strands of her hair stick to the sheen of sweat that’s all over her face.

Her dad, always super protective, enrolled her in self-defense classes, and the first rule of abduction is to take notice of one’s surroundings and her advantages.

Before she can properly do this, a flash of gold teases her attention, then a force with the power of a battering ram knocks her sideways into the sand. Her head spins as she tries to focus on the attacker’s face: green dots, golden freckles, and—

_Wings?_

The pretty boy angel _—Dean?—_ slowly walks forward, as if savoring this moment. A silver blade glints in his clenched fist.

Claire does what she can do—rolling on her side, snapping open her tiny pocketknife, slicing the side of her shoulder, and painting a clumsy banishing sigil on something sticking out of the sand—something of stone.

Dean screams in agony, and Claire has to cover her ears, but he doesn’t vanish. Her ears still burst, and her hands shake when the silence begins.

_Shit. Claire, get up. Move!_

Advantages. Advantages. She has no advantages except for her blood, and that would run out quickly enough. Claire presses the jacket she’s still wearing against the wound, applying the pressure, mind racing.

“Why are you doing this?” This is completely stupid, but all she can see is endless sand for miles, and Claire knows that she can’t outrun an angel.

“I will spill blood at the birthplace of Ishmael, your descendent, and I will save Castiel. You will never have power over him. And I will do the same to the other vessels. Angels will never interfere on Earth again, unless Castiel and I grant it.”

Ishmael. The son of Abraham. So, she’s in…Canaan. Near Israel.

 _This is the land of beginnings._  

Claire breathes, and remembers.

* * *

Dean grits his teeth as the pain wracks his body, and he collapses on the ground. The girl reaches out and grabs his shoulder, his left shoulder—

_I am water. Stones cannot hurt me. I am broken but stronger for it._

_Stones stay at the bottom. They may not be noticeable, but little by little, they can block the stream, stop it from flowing—he’s thought about—thought about it—but can’t—he’s too afraid to—he’s broken already—so why not—why not—You are stronger broken. But that doesn’t mean you should have been broken—you’re-you’re—important—to Sam—to Bobby—to Cas—_

_Cas—Cas—Cas—who’s Cas?_

_Barn doors opening. Sparks from lightbulbs hitting his cheek. The gun kicking in his hands. Bobby beside him. Shots ringing. But nothing can stop him. Him. Castiel. Cas._

_I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition—What’s the matter? You think you don’t deserve to be saved?—You should show me some respect—What are you dreaming about?—You have to stop it—can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another soul?—I am not a hammer, as you say—I would give anything not for you to do this—The fault doesn’t lie with you—we need to talk—I don’t serve man—I certainly don’t serve you—I see nothing but pain here—I’ll hold them off, I’ll hold them all off—Hello, Dean—you are not him—I hunted, I rebelled, I did it all for you—I gave everything for you!—I’m better than ever—Dean and I do share a more profound bond—I’m doing this for you, Dean, I’m doing this because of you—_

Dean remembers.

_Oh, God._

“Tell me the plan.”


	11. Chapter 11

_“Dean.”_

The alarm in Cas’ eyes makes Sam take a step back. Something in his chest tightens with both relief and dread—and with a furious look, Cas vanishes.

“Cas!” Sam shouts, then turns to Death with an annoyed look. “You couldn’t help us out?”

Death only shrugs in response, and Sam resists the urge to scream, that would only make the thrumming in his head worse. Crowley’s little patch job, it seems, is weaker than the original one Death had put up--whether it was because of Crowley’s lack of power, or something the demon did on purpose. Sam wouldn’t put such a thing past the King of Hell.

His stomach twists in dread, of the wall coming down again, of being consumed by fire and screams, of living the rest of his life in Hell. He remembers Dean shouldering it, carrying it close to his heart like a brand, and bearing his suffering silently, until it was pried out of him, little by little, by Sam or Alastair or Cas. But like a brand, it was going to stay there forever, and Sam feared that happening to him, too.

His thoughts are interrupted by a buzzing. Bobby and Amelia pull out their phones, and Sam follows suit, squinting at the text: 

_“Mom’s going to kill me for the international charge, but I have a plan. Talk to Death about opening a portal in Canaan. Near Israel. Look it up on Google Maps or something, but fucking HURRY.”_

Crowley coughs impatiently behind them. “Care to share with the class?”

“We need to get to Canaan. Now.” Amelia snaps, opening a map on her phone. “Boys, use tracking equipment, spells, whatever fancy things you have up your asses--we just need to get to Claire before Castiel gets there--”

“Since Castiel’s gone,” Death suggests, his voice loud in the silent room. “I’ll open a portal for you and snap you over, but if any of you screw this up, I honestly will wonder why I even spoke with you. I do have a fondness for Dean, the little protozoa, so…” Death rubs his hands together. “Let’s speed this up.” 

* * *

 Claire hopes to God it almost works. She would say a prayer, but isn’t sure if Castiel—with his big head—will hear it, and that won’t do her any favors. Dean, inside the ring of holy fire, nods at her with a somewhat nervous smile. Claire stands up, brandishing Dean’s angel blade— _you’ll probably need this more than I do_ —and turns to the angel.

“Okay, snap me out of here, now, before he gets here—“

“Too late.”

Claire says a word her mother would cross herself for, and dumps the jug of water she and Dean had prepared over the flames.

* * *

Dean thinks, _Aw, shit_ , before hell breaks loose.

Bobby, Sam, Claire’s mom, and _Crowley_ burst out of the woodwork. Claire uses this opportunity—smart kid, she’d make a good hunter—to free him and roll out of the way. Dean’s now quick enough to tackle Cas like a goddamn linebacker. It’s like smashing into a concrete block, but it actually stops Cas long enough for Bobby to whip out a piece of paper and begin chanting.

“Ianua magna purgatorii, clausa est ob nos lumine eius—“

“No!” Cas roars, but Dean grips him tightly with his wings and holds on for dear life. The god fights him, but not quite as much as Dean’s expecting, whether it’s because the spell is doing its work, or if it’s because he _won’t._ No. Dean won’t think about the reasons why, not now, because the wind comes.

Bobby shouts over Cas’ roars, stirring up sand with gusts that lift everyone’s hair and even rips Sam’s jacket from his shoulders, but he, Claire’s mom, and Claire join their voices with Bobby, arms over their eyes. Dean tries his best, reaching out with his freaky Jedi powers, and fights the wind, putting up a blockade around everyone, while trying not to get knocked off his feet himself. Gripping Cas tightly around the waist seems to help. He’s unmoveable now, and Dean feels like an ant trapped in a rainstorm.

“ab oculis nostris retento sed nunc stamus ad limen huius ianuae magnae—”

Suddenly, Dean feels a presence lurking just on the edge of his senses, his wings prickling like hair at the back of his neck. 

 _Crowley_.

Cas collapses to the ground when Dean lets go--the wind dies with a brief shudder—and Dean whips around, advancing upon Crowley in a display of pure and righteous fury before slamming his palm against the demon’s forehead.

“You don’t have the nerve—” Crowley snarls, but looks very, _very_ afraid.

“Oh, I do,” Dean replies. He can. The King of Hell screwed all of them over, and it’s time for a claim of the pound of flesh.

“You can’t!” Crowley yells frantically, his eyes wild with fear and panic in realization of his own mortality. Dean can _taste_ it, and the power that surges through him is intoxicating and almost _wrong,_ like _Hell_ wrong. “I’m the best demon you have; I’m the _best._ You won’t dare get rid of me, because you have to count on me. Something worse may take my place if you kill me.”

He’s got a point there, but Dean knows everything, so much that he goes with it, savoring his next words. The heat in his chest unfurls like something dark and ugly, but sweet, and Dean smiles. “Then I won’t kill you. I’ll just send you straight back to Hell, tied and trussed. Let’s see what the other demons think of you when they hear of your failure.” 

The look on Crowley’s face is priceless, and Dean takes special pleasure in snapping his fingers while watching the King of Hell disappear. He feels the energy in his body shoot into every vein, all elation and triumph, when--

Suddenly, Sam collapses, holding his head and screaming, like that horrible moment with Lisa and Ben on the floor—and no, no, Dean’s not going to let this happen, not again—

_Fucking Crowley!_

“Finish the spell!” Dean bellows and races to Sam’s side. 

“…Creaturae terrificae quarum ungulae et dentes nunquam—“

Dean knows what to do. He’s going to take on Sam’s pain, like he always has, but Dean’s an _angel_ now. He can handle it. Taking a deep breath and releasing the pressure in his throat, Dean reaches out and grabs Sam’s arm, closing his eyes. He sees Lucifer, ringed in flames, cackling madly; he sees Michael, fierce and ugly and not at all holy, reach into Adam’s chest; he sees Adam screaming in utter agony; he sees Sam reaching out, trying to do something, but—

“…tetigerunt carnem eius ad mundum nostrum—“

_Sam. Sam, come back to me._

“…nunc ianua magna, aperta tandem!”

With a scream, the souls tear out of Cas.

And with a gasp, Sam wakes up. 

* * *

 Dean takes them back to Bobby’s house. Amelia and Claire go to release Lisa and Ben from the panic room and update them on the whole situation. Dean hauls Sam up with surprisingly little effort, setting him down on Bobby’s couch. Sam looks worse for wear, but thankfully sane and alive, and just asks for some quiet. At Sam’s brief nod of permission, Dean touches two fingers to his brother’s head and lets him sleep.

Bobby’s patching up Claire, who’s still talking about her adventure to Ben, who’s looking at her with hero worship, complete with shining eyes and a gaping mouth. Dean’s glad that Ben apparently found a friend in Claire back in Indiana, but he’s not giving Ben that _hurt her, and I’ll hurt you_ speech. That’s for Amelia Novak to make, and he’s pretty confident that Claire can blast Ben away if he tries something she’s not ready for.

Dean’s suddenly snapped out of his reverie by a palm striking his cheek before anyone can warn the offender. Lisa curses, and Dean quickly repairs the fractures in her fingers.

“You utter jackass,” Lisa snaps.

“I deserved that.”

“You’re damn right you do, and more. Dean, I don’t begrudge your presence in our lives. I meant it when I told you that it was the best year of my life. But you had no right to just drop me like that, then erase my memories.” Lisa puffs out her cheeks and exhales, slowly. She’s watching Ben smile at Claire, asking her something Lisa can’t hear. “Dean, I’ve proved to you, time and time again, that I can handle things. Maybe you needed to teach me how to salt down the windows and carry around some sort of weapon at all times, but I wouldn’t have taken you in if I didn’t think I could deal with it.”

“You’re right.” Dean remembers that night again, how Lisa had stood in her doorway for a shocked second before inviting him, how she told Ben to go straight to bed, how she heated up leftovers and brought him a beer when he cried into his cupped palms, and how she offered him a place to stay and a job at a construction site if he wanted it. “You’re an angel.”

“I hope that was a compliment,” Lisa wryly says, before glancing over at Cas, who’s standing in the corner with his shoulders slumped. Amelia is jabbing a finger into his chest, chewing him out, while Bobby, Claire, and Ben silently watch from the sidelines. Claire looks torn between joining her mom or simply staying put, while Bobby and Ben look frightened.

“It was,” Dean replies, now weary. “Lisa, I’m sorry. I understand if you never want me around again.”

“I can’t forgive you. Not all at once.” Lisa amends, when Dean’s wings droop visibly. “I’ll call you up if Ben wants to see you, but I’m going to tell you that you’re going to have to earn back my trust, okay? No mind-wiping me for forgiveness.”

It’s not a particularly funny joke, but Dean mimics Lisa’s slight smile, and answers, “Promise.”

Lisa nods, eyes now on the furious verbal display from Amelia to Cas, whose resolutely looking down at the floor. “So. That’s Cas.”

Cas doesn’t look so frightening now, and something deep in his chest pulls.

“That’s Cas,” Dean sighs.

He leaves Lisa to pull Ben aside and tell him to stop gawking like a fish. Approaching Amelia and Cas, he hears something familiar:

“...And you _leave._ You _kidnap_ my husband and make him abandon his wife and child without a _word_ , tearing his family apart for your selfishness, and _then,_ you become some--some _monster_ \--”

Cas looks defenseless, his coat hanging loose around his shoulders, swallowing his body, now emaciated. Dean wonders if it’s because of the lack of souls filling him up, but realizes with a rush of horror why.

He’s now human.

Amelia finishes her rant, then, glaring at Dean, stalks over to Claire and Bobby. Bobby points to the kitchen, offering some food, and everyone except Sam, who’s resting peacefully on the couch, files out of the room.

“Dean,” Cas breathes, and a thousand things pass between them before the ex-angel settles on, “I’m so sorry.”

“You should be.” Dean remembers the kissing, in the other world and in this one, and something feels like as though what he and Cas should have had a long time ago in a different life has been utterly stolen and corrupted. He feels inexplicably betrayed.

Cas speaks up again, voice battered like storm-worn sails. “Can you—can you ever forgive me?”

Dean almost feels like Cas now, souls ripped out of him, stripped to the bone, but it’s heavier than that. He now knows why he looked back at Cas through the holy fire that night, and this realization doesn’t bring him any peace. He was-- _is--_ in love. In love with a _monster_ who nearly destroyed the entire world and his own friends to...to…

Cas didn’t want to take over the world. He wanted to _help,_ in his own fucked-up way, and Dean can’t fault him for that. God knows that he and Sam had done their fair share of world breaking. And even though that whole alternate life was all Cas’ doing, he can remember how desperate Cas looked in Lisa’s kitchen, then how devastated he looked in the circle of flickering flames.

Dean knows why Cas had looked back at him, too, despite the destruction he brought on them all, now visible and crashing down like thunder across the sky, the moment before the rain hits.

All Dean can say is:

“…I don’t know.”


End file.
